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A NOVEL OF THE FUTURE Cj

A THRILLING

An Amaz/n q
Camp/ete Noise/

^NORMAN A.
DANIELS

THE POINT
OF VIEW

4 //a//ofFame C/ass/c

By STANLEY C.
WEI N BAUM

"One Moment, Please . . . There’s Someone on the Wire!"

Right now the armed forces are using much of our pro¬
duction of “Eveready” No. 6 Dry Cells for field telephone
units. That limits the civilian supply, so please use yours
carefully.

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Radio helps Service mi
ppAcr^jj/^Also prepar

THE BEST IN SC I E N TI FI CTIO N -

A Complete Cook-Length Scientifiction Motel

OL GREAT EGO

By NORMAN A. DANIELS

Jim Downing and a Courageous Girl Bat¬
tle Against Odds to Thwart the Evil Plans
of Two Power-Mad Maniacs—and to Save
the World from a Strange Destructive
Science . II

Unusual Short Stories

CANAL Carl Jacobi 78

Ex-Clerk Kramer Dodges Deadly Dangers on a Martian Quest

THE POINT OF VIEW Stanley G. Weinbaum 88

A Hall of Fame Story Reprinted by Popular Demand

SPAWN OF THE FURTHER DARK.Frank Belknap Long 100

Bill Hilton and His Bride Thumb a Ride from a Mysterious Visitor

THE BARD OF CERES Joseph Farrell 111

A Space Pirate and Shakespeare Liven Things Up for Johnny Bates

Special features

THE ETHER VIBRATES .Announcements and Letters 6

THRILLS IN SCIENCE Oscar J. Friend 96

THIS STARTLING WAR News from the Science Front I 15

YOUR CONTRIBUTION TO VICTORY .Norman Angell 117

REVIEW OF FAN PUBLICATIONS Sergeant Saturn 127

Cover Painting by Earle K. Bergey—Illustrating "The Great Ego"

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© You See

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A Department Where Readers, Writers and Sergeant Saturn Get Together

W HAT sort of communiques are in the
mail bag or on the operator’s spindle
this issue the old Sarge doesn’t yet
know—but I’m shuddering already. Snaggle-
tooth, rip open the mail sack while I unchain
the little ogres. First, perhaps I should ex¬
plain to you space monkeys about Snaggle-
tooth. He is the old space dog’s new aide.

Wart-ears is the mess-age boy in the good
ship THRILLING WONDER STORIES,
Frog-eyes scrambles the communiques in
CAPTAIN FUTURE, and Snaggle-tooth has
the STARTLING STORIES space run. Once

be BEYOND THE SINGING FLAME, by
Clark Ashton Smith, a sequel to THE CITY
OF SINGING FLAME, reprinted in the
January, 1941, issue. Along with other
short stor new THRILLS IN SCIENCE,
various articles, and this delightful and serene
department, the good ship STARTLING
STORIES will be laden to the ceiling venti¬
lators.

Now, on with the affairs of Snaggle-tooth.

OF THIS AND THAT

By Tom Pace

(Continued on page 8)

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THE ETHER VIBRATES

TOMORROW I AM A SOLDIER MAN

TO THE MAN
WHO WANTS

SUCCESS

AFTER THE WAR

Vic Sukel of
MENTAL CREATING

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GREAT

ECO

NORMAN A. DANIELS

CHAPTER I

Portrait of a Meek Man

T HE diminutive figure advanced to¬
ward the bank with quick, mincing
steps. He looked like one of
those little men who seem to find it dif¬
ficult to keep from being trampled un¬
derfoot.

He had thin, light-colored hair, mild
blue eyes and almost invisible eyebrows.
In manner of dress he might have been
called almost dainty. His wing collar
and somber tie were reminiscent of an
era long since past. A derby hat rode
his head with astonishing precision. His
old-fashioned frock coat and striped
trousers may have gone with an official’s
position in a bank, but certainly did not
jibe with the job of teller.

Yet, Rodney St. George had never been
known to wear anything else. A few peo¬
ple swore it was the same outfit he wore
twenty-eight years before when he
started work at the bank for the first
time.

Although it would have been difficult
to notice, Rodney St. George’s mild eyes
grew icy for an instant as he saw two
people standing not far from the en¬
trance to the bank. He knew both of
them.

As he passed, there was no trace of

AN AMAZING BOOK-LENGTH NOVEL

Jsia'is Downing Cattles Against Odds to Thwart

hatred or coolness in his attitude. For¬
mally polite, he removed the derby which
rested atop his head, bowed and allowed
the faintest notion of a smile to cross his
lips.

“Good morning, Miss Brooke. Good
morning, Mr. Downing,” he greeted
without slackening his pace or looking
back.

Pamela Brooke shuddered just a little.

JIM DOWNING

and her arm, linked through that of her
companion, tightened a bit.

“Jim,” she said. “I—I don’t like that
man. There’s something wrong with
him He almost seems to give off an aura
of—laugh at me now—of evil.”

Jim Downing did laugh. “Pam,
Rodney St. George is the most in¬
offensive little guy in existence. But I
brought you here to identify him. Is he
the man who made those book purchases
at Maur and Company where you
work?”

“Yes, Jim. Having seen Mr. St. George
in the bank several times—look, the bank
doors are opening of their own accord
just as he reaches them. Have you had
an electric eye installed?”

IM DOWNING saw the heavy cop¬
per doors of the bank swing open.
A clock was striking nine at that instant.
Rodney St. George was within three or
four of his short steps when the doors
started to open. He did not have to
change his pace in the least. After he
passed through, the doors closed again.
At nine-thirty the bank would be open to
the public for business.

Jim Downing looked down at Pamela.
He almost forgot his troubles at the
sight of her. She was small, a full ten
inches shorter than his six feet, but
trimly constructed. Her eyes were gray
and level, her smile pleasant. Just now,
there was a worried look in her eyes.

“No, Pam,” said Downing, chuckling.
“Those doors have opened for St. George
at this precise instant for the last twenty-
odd years. He’s never early or late. As
the clock begins to strike nine, he heads
for the door and the guards inside don’t
even bother to look for him. They just
open the doors and he trots through.”

“That’s hardly being human. How
could anyone maintain such exact punc¬
tuality for so long a time?”

“St. George has. Never lost an hour
from work in his life. Never late. At
the close of the day his accounts tally
to the penny. During the twenty-eight
years he has worked at the bank mil¬
lions upon millions of dollars have
passed through his hands, and until now
I’d have thought that money was as safe
as the gold buried at Fort Knox.”

“And now you are not so certain?”
Pamela said. “I’m not asking you to
tell me what it is all about, but, Jim—
the way he looked at us. It was only a

A Gisfs Cauntless Courage Helps to Sate

the Evil Elans of Tno Power-Mad Maniacs!

flash, but believe me there was no meek¬
ness in it.”

“Nonsense,” Downing derided gently.
“Remember Foster who stole a lot of the
bank’s money and then hung himself
last week? Of course, you do. I couldn’t
talk of much else for the following two
or three nights when we were together.
Well, included in Foster’s loot were
several greenbacks, the numbers of
which were recorded for reasons quite
remote from the theft. These bills
turned up at Mazur and Company. Your
firm deals only in ancient tomes, hand¬
written scrolls and such. Foster’s read¬
ing never got beyond the sport pages,
but Rodney St. George dotes on old
books. So I am just curious.”

P AMELA looked up at her fiance.

“You mean St. George is a thief? I’m
sure he paid for his last batch of books. I
saw him a few times in the bank, but he
was always behind his teller’s cage so
I couldn’t be sure. Now, meeting him
face to face, I can swear he is the man
who spent that money in our store.”

Downing rubbed his chin. “I simply
can’t get used to the idea of St. George
being crooked. It doesn’t jibe with his
character at all. There must be an ex¬
planation. Pam, I haven’t even men¬
tioned this to any other bank officers. I
won’t either because I think St. George
must have an explanation of some kind.”

Pamela shivered. “He recognized me,
of course. Perhaps he even guessed
why I was here on the corner with you.
Don’t tell him why you brought me here
—please. I waited on him several times.
It’s all coming back now. He was so
meticulously polite all the time. Jim
how much does he make?”

Downing shrugged. “In the neighbor¬
hood of forty dollars a week. Why?”

Pamela frowned. “Because he has
spent upwards of eight thousand dollars

in our store during the past year. Where
did he get it?”

“Oh, come now,” Downing said
lightly. “Perhaps St. George saved his
money. In fact, no one claims to have
seen him spend a nickel. Or he might
have been left a sum by the death of a
relative. I’ll find out.”

They started walking slowly in the
direction of the bank. Pamela held

PAMELA

onto his arm tightly as if she hated to let
go.

“Jim, promise me you’ll be careful. I
know I may sound awfully silly to you,
but—but something I can’t explain re¬
pels me from Rodney St. George. I’m
afraid of him. Please be very, very care¬
ful.”

Downing nodded. “It’s the business of
tying St. George up with the death of
Foster. The police and the medical ex¬
aminer said it was obviously a suicide.
You can’t believe that St. George mur¬
dered Foster. Why, Foster was twice as

the World from a Strange E)estructfee Science!

STARTLING STORIES

big and could have smeared him in one
second flat. Now run along. I’ve made
you late for work already. Don’t worry
about St. George. Nor me, neither.”

He watched her hurry down the street,
grinned and waved when she turned and
gave him one last agitated look. Down¬
ing chuckled as he proceeded toward
the bank doors. Women were funny, he
reflected. A little runt like Rodney St.
George could make them imagine all
sorts of things. If she only knew St.
George as well as those who worked in
the bank, she’d have never found a single
worry in him.

In fact, Downing felt sorry for the
man. He seemed so completely drawn
into his shell, like a man afraid to stick
his neck out to see whether it was rain¬
ing or not. St. George was a bachelor,
about forty-five, and he lived all alone
in a modest little bungalow that went
well with his nature.

Downing took a final drag on his ciga¬
rette and flipped it into the gutter. In¬
stead of being worried because of St.
George, he was worried about him. It
was simply incredible that the meek
little teller could have stolen any money
or been Foster’s partner in the theft.
Foster had played the horses, gambled
every time he got a chance and spent
more than he earned. St. George was
the direct opposite of this.

There’d be a logical explanation.
Downing felt sure of it and sincerely
hoped for it. Yet there were certain
things against him, too. Men who in¬
herit money usually talk about it, and
St. George had never mentioned a rela¬
tive in all his years at the bank, let
alone speaking of being left some money.

When Downing entered, St. George
was already in his cage, expertly count¬
ing bills and silver. He’d taken off the
frock coat, replaced it with a light¬
weight gray jacket. He always wore
brown paper cuffs around his wrists. Em¬
ployees had to have their own coats
cleaned, and St. George could manage
to keep his from becoming soiled for
weeks by using left-over bits of paper
as cuffs.

Downing hesitated, undecided wheth¬

er to question St. George now or wait
until later. It was one of those things
he could easily postpone from day to
day. Downing hated to do it, but this
was absolutely necessary. As assistant
cashier of the bank, his duty was clear.
Yet he could also give St. George every
chance to absolve himself, approaching
the problem with considerable tact.

St. George looked up, gave Downing
a mild little smile and then went back to
work. Downing walked slowly into his
own private office and decided it might
be better to handle this somewhere be¬
sides in the bank. Perhaps a visit to St.
George’s home would give him an oppor¬
tunity to size up the little guy better.
Certainly it would offer more privacy.
He determined to wait until then, but to
make the appointment now before he
grew soft and postponed the matter.

Rodney St. George finished totaling
his cash, made a neat little entry of the
figure and gave a startled jump when a
pencil was rattled across the bars of his
cage. An impish office boy was laugh¬
ing at him.

“Mr. Downing wants to see you and
he don’t mean later.”

“Oh, my.” St. George fluttered a bit.
“Oh, my, it’s almost time for the bank to
open. Why doesn’t he make these ar¬
rangements beforehand? It’s spoiling
my whole plan for the day.”

“Is that so?” The office boy laughed.
“But Mr. Downing is the assistant cash¬
ier, so you better scram, pal.”

ODNEY ST. GEORGE didn’t ex¬
actly scram. He never did things
in a hurry. Very calmly, he removed his
gray jacket, donned the frock coat and
methodically brushed wrinkles out of
the sleeves. The office boy stood there,
watching him, entranced.

“Hey, St. George.” The boy stuck his
nose against the bar, “How come you got
a fancy name like that? Fancy name
and fancy pants. Maybe your great-
great grandpappy was the guy who killed
all the dragons over in England, huh?”

“I have no information on that score,”
St. George replied precisely. “Run
along, my lad. You annoy me.”

STARTLING STORIES

The boy grinned. “You could be a
dragon killer too if you wanted. If a
dragon ever saw you coming, he’d split
wide open laughing himself to death.”

Rodney St. George didn’t color with
embarrassment. He showed no irritation.
In fact, nobody had ever seen him dis¬
play emotion of any kind. He was just
a part of the bank, like the time lock on
the big vault. He operated as smoothly
and gave as little trouble.

The big doors of the bank swung open.
The first customer to enter was a slender
young man who kept his eyes down and
walked rapidly toward the teller’s cages.
He glanced up, saw Rodney St. George
behind his little barred window and nod¬
ded in satisfaction. He proceeded
straight to St. George’s cage. The bank
page withdrew.

St. George saw him coming and flut¬
tered again. His job was to accommodate
customers, and Downing had broken into
the routine. St. George leaned closer to
the grilled window.

“Good morning, sir. Would you
mind going to another teller, please?”

“Yes,” the stranger grunted. “I
would.”

He was carrying a folded newspaper in
one hand and he thrust this through the
window. With an expert flip he caused
the folds of the the newspaper to fall
away, and Rodney St. George looked at
the biggest gun he’d ever seen in his life.

“Listen,” the man said in a low, terse
voice. “Nobody else can see this gun.
Just you. I don’t want to hurt anybody,
but I need cash. Five hundred dollars.
Hand it over. Then you keep your
mouth shut until I leave.”

“What if I don’t?” St. George asked.

The man turned paler. “Don’t be a
fool. I’ve got to have that money. I’ll
kill to get it. You can’t make fifty dol¬
lars a week. Why die for small change
like that? You’ll only be a dead hero
and somebody will take your place. I
tell you I mean to have that money.
Five hundred dollars!”

St. George’s foot moved toward the
alarm button on the floor. The gun
moved, too, just enough to show that the
bandit realized what was on St. George’s

mind. The little bank teller sighed,
picked up a sheaf of currency and count¬
ed out five hundred dollars. Without
thinking, he reached for an envelope. He
always gave clients envelopes when they
took away a large amount of cash.

The bandit misunderstood that ges¬
ture. His gun flamed. The bullet zipped
past St. George’s cheek, making a funny
kind of hollow sound behind him. Then
the bandit reached under the window,
grabbed the money and fled before the
guards really knew what had happened.

Two of them rushed after him. Other
employees raced toward Rodney St.
George’s cage. He was gently fingering
his no longer immaculate derby hat.
There was a bullet hole squarely through
the middle of it.

“My,” Rodney St. George said. “My
goodness. I wonder if I can have the
damage repaired without much cost.”

CHAPTER II
Kitty in a Cell

T WO hours later Jim Downing stood
in front of St. George’s cage.

“The police caught our bandit, St.
George. He’s locked up in the precinct
just around the corner. They want you
to come over and identify him. By the
way, we all appreciate the fact that you
tried to save the bank’s money.”

“Oh, but I didn’t,” St. George replied
truthfully. “I had decided to give it to
him. He became rattled. Must I go to
the police station now? Mr. Arnbuthy
is due in a few moments to get the pay¬
roll for his firm. I always handle it. I
should be here.”

“Bother Mr. Arnbuthy,” Downing
grunted. “Put on your street clothes and
get over to the police station before they
back up the wagon and haul you out.
This is serious business.”

“Yes, sir,” St. George answered meek¬
ly. “Of course, sir. I shall go there at
once, sir.”

Downing looked at the clock. “By the

THE GREAT EGO

way, St. George, I wanted to have a talk
with you today, but it’s rather late. You
may go to lunch after finishing with the
police. I’ll be busy this afternoon, so
may I pay you a visit tonight? At your
home, I mean?”

Rodney St. George’s face did not show
his annoyance, as he slowly nodded. “It’s
very important to both of us,” Downing
added. “Expect me at eight. You won’t
be sorry, I assure you.”

Downing walked away. Rodney St.
George finished smoothing his coat and
reached for his derby. The bullet hole
through the top of it brought a deep
frown. He fingered the frayed portions

and his cherubic face underwent a
change.

Rodney St. George lost that fussy,
timid look. His lips grew straight and
thin. His eyes narrowed a bit and the
muscles in his cheeks hardened slightly.
A bullet hole through a twenty-year-old
derby caused that. Something really im¬
portant might have made a cruel despot
of him.

A hefty police sergeant piloted him
down a long, dark corridor toward the
cell room. “All you gotta do,” he said,
“is look at the guy and tell us he’s the
one who stuck you up.”

“Filthy place,” St. George said softly.

“Yeah.” The sergeant grinned. “We
got germs here. Some of the germs grow
very big and you can see ’em. Especially
after a few bums park here overnight.”

Rodney St. George shivered and
blamed it all on this stupid gunman
who’d ruined his derby. St. George was
becoming very angry with that man. He
walked through the main cell door. The
sergeant pointed at several cells.

“We got six or eight monkeys locked
up in there, pal. Just so no smart mouth¬
piece can say we pointed the guy out to
you, you pick him, see. I’ll stand here
while you do it.”

St. George peered into the first cell,
went on and did the same with the sec¬
ond. When he reached the last cell, he
saw the gunman, still the same frantic¬
eyed, worried man of the holdup. He
glanced at St. George and winced.

“I guess,” he said nervously, “I’m not
a very good bandit. Look, I really
needed that money desperately. My kid
brother was in a jam. I’m no good—
got a prison record for shoplifting al¬
ready, but I had to help the kid.”

“You ruined my hat, did you know
that?” St. George said. “You made me
leave the bank at a particularly busy
time. You brought me here to this
filthy place, and now you plead with
me.”

“Give me a break, Mister. I could
have put that bullet through your head
instead of the hat. Just say I’m not
the guy. Please, Mister. The bank got
the money back. I’ll do anything. Work
for nothing I—I’ll pray for you.”

“Pray for me?” St. George frowned.
“What makes you think I need prayer?
But I will get you out of here. Look at
me.”

Rodney St. Clair gave a covert glance
at the sergeant who stood near the door.
Then Rodney St. George raised his
right hand at the prisoner. He drew a
straight line in the air, lifted the hand
again and encompassed that invisible
line with another one that seemed to
circle about the first as a vine climbs a
pole.

There sounded a distinct meow, and

STARTLING STORIES

a cat walked out between the bars of the
cell door. St. George bent to pick it
up. The cat shied away, its tail grow¬
ing big, its lips hissing a warning. St.
George grasped it by the back of the
neck like an expert He tucked the cat
under one arm.

“Sergeant,” he called out. “This is
the gunman all right, but there is some¬
thing wrong with him.”

S ERGEANT O’BRIEN hurried over,
saw the cat and stared.

“Where'd you get that?” he asked.

“It was in the cell with the crook. I
like cats, don’t you? They’re soft and
silky. I like them very much.”

“Holy Moses!” The sergeant fum¬
bled in his pocket for a key. “Some¬
thing’s happened to Logan all right.
Mister—beat it out front and have the
lieutenant call a doctor, will you?”

Still holding the cat firmly, Rodney
St. George obeyed the order. He was
still at the station when the doctor
emerged from the cell.

“The man is dead, but there isn’t a
mark on him,” reported the physician.
“Must have been his heart.”

“Will you do an autopsy?” St. George
asked.

The doctor nodded. “Yes, of course.”
St. George smiled. An autopsy meant
that the corpse would be cut up. He
stroked the cat’s head, turned so the
animal could look into the cell. It
seemed to draw back in his grasp as if
what it saw was the most horrible spec¬
tacle on earth.

“Sergeant,” St. George asked, “do you
mind if I keep this cat? You did say it
doesn’t belong here and I will provide
an excellent home.”

“Sure—take it away. We’d only have
to call the S.P.C.A. for it. Listen,
buddy, was Logan stiff when you first
looked in the cell?”

“Stiff? Oh, you mean dead? I really
have no way of knowing, Sergeant. He
looked dead. Logan—so that was his
name. I think I’ll call my new cat
Logan, too. It’s a nice name for him.
Good-by, gentlemen. You will find me at
the bank should you want me.”

St. George walked happily out of the
building, looked around for a clock and
saw that it was the hour for the bank
to close. He’d been forced to spend con¬
siderable time at the police station. He
should return to the bank, but if some¬
one else had taken his place, the cash
would be mixed up, anyway. For the
first time in twenty-eight years he de¬
cided to go home early and without
checking out of the bank.

There was a little fuss on the bus be¬
cause Logan, the cat, obviously wanted
his freedom. Just as obviously, St.
George was determined to keep him and
he held the animal tighter and tighter
until it emitted a decided squeal of pain.
Several women glanced at him. St.
George smiled back and eased up on the
pressure.

He got off the bus about half a mile
from his home and walked the rest of
the way. A few blocks up the street, he
entered a butcher shop. The butcher, a
man with a face as red as the meat he
handled, eyed St. George with a some¬
what exasperated stare.

“Now, don’t tell me you got another
cat?” he said. “They’ll eat you out of
house and home and ration book. What’s
a man want with a flock of cats any¬
how? Some old lady might like them,
but a man like you ought to have a dog.
I’d rather—”

“Please,” St. George said, “I’m paying
you for meat, not advice. I happen to
like cats and I shall keep as many as I
wish. Give me three pounds of liver.
The inexpensive kind. Or wait . . . two
and a half pounds should be sufficient.
I’ll save some ration points.”

The butcher turned away and started
slicing big chunks off the liver. St.
George held the cat up a bit so it could
watch the operation. The cat began
mewing as if it were encased in a bur¬
lap bag with a few heavy rocks and
on its way to the river.

“Be sure to wrap the liver well,” St.
George directed. “Last time, the blood
leaked out. If it happens again, I shall
send you the bill for having my clothes
cleaned.”

The butcher slapped the meat onto a

THE GREAT EGO

scale. “Ahhhh . . . rats!” he growled.
‘‘If you don’t like the way I handle my
business, don’t buy here. Wrap it well!
Ahhh.”

St. George held the package of meat
daintily in one hand and well away from
his body. He turned from the street onto
the walk which led to a neat little bung¬
alow. It was white, scrupulously clean
and set back from the street. The only
unusual thing about it was the trans¬
former box on the alley pole and the
heavy electric light wire leading into it.
The kind usually used to handle heavy
loads of juice. Certainly a small house
like this did not require so much cur¬
rent. Yet the wire was there and had
been for quite some time.

M R. ST. GEORGE unlocked the
door. Instantly, four cats came
running up to him. They rubbed against
his legs, purring loudly. He held the
door open wide. “Wouldn’t you like to
go out?” he asked politely. “The door
is open. Go ahead.”

The cats continued their purring, not
one showing the slightest inclination to
leave. St. George closed the door, held
his new cat at arm’s length and then
tossed it to the floor.

“There,” he said. “Get acquainted.
You’ll all be here for a long time. As
long as you live. With you, Logan, I
don’t care how long that is. I’ll explain
to you pretty soon. At the moment I
am quite busy.”

St. George shooed the cats into the
kitchen, sliced the liver into smaller
pieces and dumped it into dishes, one
for each cat. He got an extra bowl for
the new cat he called Logan. He placed
these on the floor, filled up a water bowl
and left the animals gulping their food.

Only the cat called Logan seemed to
hesitate. It sidled closer, sniffed of the
raw, bloody meat. It picked up one
chunk gingerly, bolted it and then be¬
gan eating furiously.

St. George doffed his coat, carefully
hung it up and changed to soft slippers.
He double-locked the front door,
checked on the rear and examined a
window. Then he went down cellar.

It was a rather small cellar, being
mostly taken up by a medium-sized fur¬
nace and a coal bin. St. George glanced
at the windows. They were thickly
coated with black paint and there were
steel bars for added protection. He
walked gingerly across the floor,
reached into his pocket and took out a
single key.

He removed an old, dusty calendar of
the year 1921 from the east wall. It had
been held in place by a very large nail.
St. George calmly unscrewed this nail,
leaving a large hole. Into this hole he
inserted the key, turned it, and there
was a distinct click. He tugged, and
a narrow section of the wall opened as
a door.

The cracks formed by this door were
most cleverly hidden by what seemed
to be a layer of cellar dust, yet that
layer moved like a hinge. St. George
walked inside, closed the door and
turned on lights.

A faijdy large room was disclosed. It
looked something like a doctor’s office,
with an examination table in the center
and some sort of an X-ray machine just
above it. St. George sighed, stretched
himself out on the table and pulled the
bullet nose of the ray machine closer
until it was only an inch from his fore¬
head.

Reaching down, he snapped home a
switch. A buzzing noise filled the
room. St. George just closed his eyes
and lay there serenely for ten minutes.
He timed it with a stop clock on the wall
which started with the mechanism and
stopped when he pulled the switch.

This done, St. George arose, stretched
and yawned. All in all, it hadn’t been
a very good day. First of all, Jim
Downing was growing suspicious. Then
that fool Logan had almost killed him
and practically ruined his derby. The
butcher had topped it off by his inso¬
lence, but St. George really didn’t care.

He turned out the lights, closed the
secret door and walked toward the stair¬
case. As he climbed the steps, he made
a peculiar remark to himself.

“Now I’m ready for Mr. James Down¬
ing.”

STARTLING STORIES

CHAPTER III
Cat’s Eye View

J IM DOWNING phoned Pamela
Brooke after dinner and begged the
night off.

“Yon see,” he explained, “I’m going
to St. George’s home. That way we can
talk and, if he is mixed up in this mess
Foster created, I may be able to give the
man a break. If he deserves it, of
course.”

“Nothing I could say would stop you
from visiting him?” Pamela asked nerv¬
ously.

“I’m afraid not, darling. You see, it’s
part of my job to check on employees.
I don’t want to take action until I am
sure. St. George’s perfect record at the
bank entitles him to all benefit of
doubt.”

“Jim,” Pamela said tightly, “I spent
part of today checking up on him. I
called a lot of book stores. In the last
ten years—and mind you, this is very
rough—St. George has spent thousands
of dollars more than he could possibly
have earned. All of this went for two
types of books. One type consisted of
ancient tomes and scrolls. Terribly val¬
uable stuff and hard to get. That’s why
the books dealers remember him.”

Downing bit his lower lip. “I’ll make
St. George explain that. Give me a list
of his expenditures. I’ll write them
down.”

When Pamela finished this, she went
on.

“The other type of book concerned
X-ray machines and electrical appa¬
ratus. He bought everything on the
life of Sir William Crookes, the man
who really discovered X-rays. Jim, you
were interested in science at one time.
Is there any connection between these
two things? The ancient books and the
inventions of modern day science?”

“How could there be?” Downing
asked. “Rays always fascinated me. I
felt there was a lot more to them than

science has so far proven to exist. Sir
William Crookes thought so, too. Now,
Pam, stop worrying. I’ll see you tomor¬
row. St. George isn’t going to hurt me.
You just got a bee in your bonnet and
it’s buzzing too much.”

“I can’t stop you, Jim. Just promise
me you’ll be careful. You didn’t see
that expression on St. George’s face
today. I did. I—I’m afraid of him.
Honestly that sounds awfully stupid,
but it’s how I feel, Jim.”

Downing laughed and their conver¬
sation delved into more personal
phrases. He hung up, climbed into a
taxi outside the drug store and had him¬
self driven to St. George’s house.

As he paid off the driver, Downing
could have sworn he saw someone peek¬
ing behind a fold of the window cur¬
tain. He walked up onto the little porch
and rang the bell.

The moment it pealed somewhere in¬
side the house, he heard the mewing of
several cats. For some reason, Down¬
ing shivered. Then he had no further
time to think. The door opened and the
diminutive figure of Rodney St. George
was welcoming him.

St. George wore an ancient smoking
jacket, although he never smoked. Cig¬
arettes were worth almost a cent each.
Pipes were expensive and cigars com¬
pletely out of the question.

“It’s a rare pleasure having a guest,”
Sir John remarked. “No one ever comes
to visit me. I have only my cats for
company. Do you like cats, Mr. Down¬
ing?”

Downing glanced at the floor. Five
cats were seated about a dozen feet
away, all regarding him with what he
could have sworn were quizzical expres¬
sions. One of the animals, a dirty-look-
ing orange-colored beast, backed up
suddenly and spat at him, with hunched
back and swollen tail.

“They don’t trust strangers,” St.
George explained. “Come into the liv¬
ing room, Mr. Downing. I’ll close the
door and keep the cats out. I’m really
curious to know why you came. What
is so important that it wouldn’t keep
until morning?”

THE GREAT EGO

Downing sat in a stiff, uncomfortable
chair and looked around the room. It
was littered with books, most of them
dog-eared.

In several locked cases, he saw more
books that looked old enough to be
worth a lot of money.

“What do you do with them?” Down¬
ing waved a hand at the books.

St. George smiled. “I love old books.
Some men have their pipes, their bottles
of whiskey or a wife with whom they
are greatly in love. I have only my
books, but I am very satisfied. As you
may have noted, I am a very retiring
man.”

“Yes—I’ve noticed. St. George, I’m
going to be painfully blunt. You’ve
been with the bank for twenty-eight

years. That’s something of a record,
you know.”

St. George nodded happily. “And I’m
proud of it. I was sixteen when I went
to work there.”

M DOWNING didn’t seem to have
" ™ heard him. He went on.

“During those years you have never
been late for work once and you’ve
never taken a day off.”

“I went home a bit early today,” St.
George said lamely. “I found a cat at
the police station and I wanted to take
it home. It was so close to quitting
time—”

“That’s nothing. By the way, the po¬
lice called late this afternoon asking
for you. Wanted to tell you an autopsy

STARTLING STORIES

on the dead crook showed absolutely no
reason why he should have died. No
poison, no organic diseases. Nothing.”

“He deserved to die,” St. George said
somewhat sharply. “He almost shot me
and ruined my hat.”

“Let’s just pass up everything but the
reason why I came here.” Downing
waved a hand in conciliatory fashion.
“You remember Paul Foster, of course.
He worked alongside of you for four
years. He embezzled about ten thou¬
sand dollars and two days later he
hanged himself.”

“I remember, naturally. Horrible ex¬
perience. I went to poor Foster’s funeral.
It was on a Saturday afternoon, most
fortunately, so I didn’t have to utilize
the bank’s time.”

“There you go again,” Downing
groaned. “St. George, you are what
anyone could safely term an ideal em¬
ployee. But are you—really?”

“Am I?” St. George Queried in a
puzzled voice. “I don’t know. I try to
be.”

“Look,” Downing said with infinite
patience, “what I am going to tell you,
nobody else knows. It is, perhaps, just
a suspicion you can blast to the skies.
I hope so. St. George, some of the
money Foster stole was recorded. We
had the numbers. A good portion of it
turned up in a used book store. Nobody
at the store knew Foster but, oddly
enough, they all knew you. You spent
that money there. Money which Foster
stole and which was never found. Yet
I can’t seem to tolerate the idea that
you are a thief.”

“Good gracious!” St. George looked
horrified. “Of course, I’m not a thief.”

Downing took a small notebook from
his pocket.

“Here I have entered several rather
significant items. They concern money
which you spent. It runs into thou¬
sands of dollars, much more than the
bank ever paid you or than even careful
investments would produce. Where did
it come from, St. George? Just prove
to me that someone left you the money,
or that you secretly play the horses—
anything at all. Only prove it.”

Rodney St. George’s appearance
didn’t alter much. Perhaps his nostrils
flared out a little and his eyes became
more piercing. Certainly, there was no
change in his calm, measured voice.

“I have nothing to tell you. I do not
like trouble,” he said. “I detest it, Mr.
Downing. I like to live my life quietly,
without interference of any kind. It
distresses me terribly when my routine
is broken. Can you understand that?”

Downing closed his notebook with a
snap.

“All I understand is that I fear you’re
a crook. Perhaps a murderer, too, be¬
cause I don’t believe Foster hanged him¬
self. He wasn’t the type to get up
courage enough for even that. If you
won’t talk I must leave it for the police
to decide.”

Rodney St. George stood up. Down¬
ing had to smile as the runty figure
drew up to its full height. “You are
quite certain there is no other alterna¬
tive?” St. George asked softly.

“None,” Downing said. “What do you
want me to do? Let you get away with
a thing like this?”

Rodney St. Geoge said, “Kitten!”

Downing looked up. “What? What
did you say?”

“Kitten! I said, kitten. Look at me,
Downing. Watch my hand.”

St. George drew a straight line in the
air and then twined another invisible
line around it. Downing closed both
eyes and sighed. He knew what was
wrong now. St. George had lived alone
too long. Nobody can exist with only
a bunch of cats for friends. The little
guy was bugs.

“Kitten!” St. George repeated.

IM DOWNING gave a wry smile
and opened his eyes. Very oddly,
he saw two huge feet not six inches
from where he sat. The feet of a giant.
He blinked a few times. Everything
had changed. The table was so high he
could hardly see the top of it. The
chairs seemed like immense bulwarks.
The nap of the worn rug was inches
high.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

THE GREAT EGO

Jim Downing tried to say.

All he heard was a piteous mewing.
He raised one foot to move backward.
His body seemed so close to the floor
and it felt as though it had lengthened
all out of shape. His leg came up and
he saw it only it wasn’t a leg any more.
It was a paw. A small, furred paw!

He opened his mouth and a squeal
came from his throat. He backed up
hastily and discovered he could move
very fast. He looked around. He’d
grown a tail and he had four legs. No
arms or hands.

Looking almost straight up, he saw
Rodney St. George smiling down at him.
He was the owner of those two huge
feet. Downing saw something else now.
There, in the chair he had occupied, sat
James Downing. There sat himself.
Eyes closed, chin resting against chest,
notebook in hand. He sat there, and
yet his conscious self was here on the
floor.

Jim Downing screamed. All that
came forth was another piteous mew.
St. George’s head was getting bigger
and bigger. He was bending over, one
hand reached out. Downing backed
away, scampering madly on all four
legs.

For the first time, he realized that this
little runt was a devil. A fiend incar¬
nate. Something that did not belong on
earth, but only in the deepest pits of
hell.

Downing found himself in a corner
while St. George continued approach¬
ing. That gigantic hand came closer
and closer. Then he moved with light¬
ning speed, and Downing felt a hard
blow. He went flying over and over,
landed on his side and regained his four
paws instantly.

Backing again, on his haunches now,
Downing watched St. George. The man
was talking, but it sounded only like the
booming of a loud speaker turned on too
loud. Also, they weren’t words, just
gibberish.

St. George was smiling slightly. Sud¬
denly he made that strange sign in the
air once more, and he himself began to
shrink, to change color. No! St. George

was still standing there transfixed.
Something else was taking shape on the
floor. A black furry creature five times
as big as Downing. A huge black cat
with a red tongue that lazily licked its
chops. Downing began to back away
once more.

The black cat sprang suddenly. Its
paw hit Downing and sent him cata¬
pulting against the wall. He regained
his feet with miraculous ease and
crouched, giving vent to angry mewing
sounds.

The black cat sat down, cocked its
head to one side and its mouth moved.

“We can talk now,” the black cat said,
and the voice seemed that of Rodney
St. George. “That’s why I converted
myself into a cat. So we could under¬
stand one another. Just remember this,
Mr. Downing—you actually are a kitten.
I am for the moment a much larger
and stronger cat. You are not the as¬
sistant cashier of the bank talking to a
mere teller. Remember that.”

“Nonsense!” Downing said, and this
time he really talked. At least it sound¬
ed like talk to his ears. “This a trick.
It’s hypnotism—a fantastic nightmare.
It’s impossible. It—it just can’t be . . .”

“I’m afraid you can’t cope with this,”
the black cat said. “Downing, behind
you is a chair. Jump on it and then
jump upon the table. You’ll find a mir¬
ror directly opposite. Take a look at
yourself.”

Downing looked up. “You mean I’m
to jump up there? St. George, you’re
crazy. That chair is ten feet above my
head.”

“Try it,” St. George said. “It’s very
easy.”

Downing backed a little, crouched
and tried to jump. Suddenly, he was on
top of the chair and it seemed as though
he attained this goal with a minimum of
effort. He leaped onto the table, turned
around a couple of times and saw a black
and white kitten moving right along
with him in the mirror opposite.

Downing’s horror grew. He raised
one hand. The kitten in the mirror
raised a paw. Downing walked closer.
So did the reflection. Then he knew

STARTLING STORIES

this was no dream. It was the real
thing. Some evil magic which St.
George had concocted.

Downing saw his own human form
still seated in the chair. He saw St.
George standing in the middle of the
floor, one hand still raised as if he had
just finished making that weird motion
in the air.

Glancing in the mirror again, Down¬
ing saw his own image. That of a kit¬
ten. Instinctively he sat on the table,
wet one paw with a tiny red tongue and
methodically washed his face with it.

CHAPTER IV
Terrible Science

R odney st. george spoke

again.

“Come down here,” St. George called,
but it was the black cat who spoke.

Downing jumped to the chair and
then to the floor. It was amazing how
easily he could do it. The black cat
came closer and sat down, tail waving
slightly as if provoked.

“Now do you believe, Mr. Downing?”
the black cat asked.

“I don’t know what to believe,” Down¬
ing said slowly. “It’s some trick—must
be. I don’t pretend to understand it.
I’m sitting up there in a chair. Yet my
conscious mind is here on the floor, ap¬
parently imprisoned in a kitten’s body.
What’s happened, St. George? What
did you do, and how did you do it?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” the black
cat said. “But shall we talk about Paul
Foster now?”

“Foster? So you killed him,” Down¬
ing accused.

“No. I wouldn’t commit murder, Mr.
Downing. I merely changed Foster into
a cat. That orange-colored beast that
arched his back at you when we came
in. Foster recognized you and was
afraid.”

“Foster a cat,” Downing said very
slowly. “It becomes more and more be¬
wildering. You said yourself you went

to Foster’s funeral.”

“The funeral of his hollow body. His
soul and consciousness were gone. They
live now in a cat. An empty shell was
buried, Mr. Downing. You were right
though. Foster did steal the money be¬
cause I showed him how. Naturally, I
couldn’t just help myself to such a
sum. It would have been discovered,
but if they found out Foster had taken
it, that made little difference to me.
Don’t you see?”

“You hung Foster’s body,” Downing
accused slowly. “It was like hanging
a dummy. His body was like mine is
now. Like yours is standing up there,
immobile. And you killed that crook in
the police cell, too. That cat you pre¬
tended to find there was really Logan.”

“Of course it was. Later, I shall in¬
troduce you to my cats, Mr. Downing.
But let’s return to us. Do you still think
you’ll turn me in?”

“I’ll probably kill you,” Downing
said. “A man like you is a menace.
This—this dream or whatever it is, will
be broken after awhile. A spell will
break. It must. Then look out, St.
George. I’m warning you.”

The black cat’s green eyes glittered.
If there was ever demoniacal fury writ¬
ten on a cat’s face, Downing saw it now.
Instinctively, he began to back up. The
black cat gave a leap. Downing saw
one huge paw slash at him. He felt the
sharp claws slashed into his left arm—
no . . . his left foreleg. There was
blood on the fur. Downing rolled over
and landed against the wall once more.
He got up, mewing helplessly.

The black cat walked over and sat
down.

“Do you still think this is hypno¬
tism?” St. George’s voice asked while
the black cat’s mouth moved in unison
with each word. “You felt pain, didn’t
you? Under a hypnotic spell there is no
pain. Perhaps I should teach you a
deeper lesson, eh?”

“No.” Downing crouched into a cor¬
ner. “No, I’ve had enough. You could
tear my throat open with those claws.
I believe you, but I can’t seem to under¬
stand just what—”

THE GREAT EGO

“It is unnecessary for you to under¬
stand,” St. George said. “I should have
preferred to go on just as before. Re-
ing a simple bank teller while I con¬
tinued my experiments. But you saw
fit to interfere and this is your penalty.”

“You mean—I’ll always be a kitten?”
Downing gasped.

“No, you’ll grow into a fine cat. A
very fine specimen. You see, Mr.
Downing, I’m a little further on than
the rest of the world. I understand
things that may become interesting sci¬
entific experiments in the future. Not
for hundreds of years, I’m afraid, but
that’s all right. Are you interested, Mr.
Downing?”

“Naturally,” Downing said, although
he was trembling.

“Excellent. You know, I’m really
glad this happened. The others are
stupid beasts. They have two thoughts
and only two. Number one—when will
they be, fed? Number two—cats having
short life span, will they die after living
the normal life of a cat or will they live
through the span alotted to a human
being?”

“Well,” Downing asked. “Will they?”

“They are cats. They will die when
the time comes for a cat to die. Now I
have you to talk with for a few years,
and you are intelligent, Downing. I’ll
repay you with extra food. Perhaps a
little cream instead of plain milk.
Calves’ liver instead of beef liver.
That’s a delicacy to a cat, you know.”

“I hate the stuff,” Downing said.
“But go on. What sort of power do
you possess that enables you to do this?”

^HHHE black cat relaxed, its head be-
tween its paws, eyes sparkling
brightly, tail lashing lazily. Downing
was interested in an explanation for just
one reason—to find a way out of this. It
wasn’t a nightmare. It wasn’t hypno¬
tism. Thjs was the real thing. He was
actually a kitten. St. George was really
a huge, black cat. Yet there had to be
some way out.

“Naturally,” the black cat said, “I
can’t explain everything, Downing. It
would be too dangerous. However, I
may say this much. What has happened
to you has a scientific explanation. I
could have changed you into any living
form I chose. A dog, a panther, a frog.
But I happen to like cats, so I never
change anyone into anything but cats.”

Downing lay down, resting against
one paw. It seemed the most natural
thing in the world to do.

The black cat spoke almost lazily.
“You heard me mention science. I meant
exactly that. Remember reading about
the ancient gods with miraculous pow¬
ers? Of the witches who changed people
into frogs? Of the strange cat people
of Yugoslavia? Legends such as those
are based on fact, Downing. On cold,
provable fact. That has always been
my theory.”

“You’ve gone far beyond mere
theory,” Downing said. “The informa¬
tion which enabled you to perform these
—miracles was found in ancient tomes,
wasn’t it? That’s why you bought so
many.”

“Of course,” St. George answered,
[Turn page ]

STARTLING STORIES

and Downing thought how odd it
seemed that St. George’s human form
stood almost beside him, while his voice
emanated from the mouth of a giant
black cat.

Downing urged him on by half-hidden
praise. “I thought those scrolls were
written in ancient languages, even hier¬
oglyphics?”

“I have mastered them,” St. George
said complacently. “It took all of my
adult life until now, but you must work
hard to accomplish something as big as
this. Downing, I think I shall tell you
a little. Take those ancient sorcerers,
soothsayers, or medicine men. They
lived on their reputations.”

“Sure,” Downing agreed, “because
people of those times didn’t possess the
intelligence we do.”

“Quite right and well put, too,” St.
George said. “I’m very glad you came.
This is the first time I have been able
to carry on an intelligent conversation
about my work and, of course, I must
boast now and then. Especially to some¬
one with brains enough to appreciate
me. You have the brains.”

“Thank you,” Downing said. “I’m
greatly interested.”

“Good. You’re not a bad sort, Down¬
ing. In the years I worked under you,
I don’t recall a harsh order or any un¬
fair treatment. Now—about my work.
Those ancient legends prevailed because
the victims really believed they had
been converted into various forms by
the soothsayers. Without this absolute
belief the legends could never have
come down through the ages.”

“It was hypnotism,” Downing com¬
mented. “And faith. Those victims be¬
lieved in all the hocus-pocus.”

“Yes, of course. Yet it was not all
hocus-pocus, Mr. Downing. Indeed
not. Those ancients were on the right
track. Their incantations really meant
something, and this is all revealed in
those certain tomes I studied. They,
too, had faith in themselves, but they
lacked science. They knew what they
wanted to do, but didn’t have the
method of accomplishing it. Now I have
taken these ancient incantations and

incorporated them with modern day
science.”

“Wait a moment,” Downing said.
“You’re traveling almost too fast for
me. We, of modern times, would laugh
and jibe at such incantations, but you
have found a way—by means of science
—so this is no longer a laughing mat¬
ter. Somehow the victims of your ex¬
periments have no control over their
own minds. They accept your mental
suggestions because they can’t help it,
and these mental suggestions are so
strong that they work this miracle.”

“Brilliant,” St. George said, and the
black cat purred contentedly. “I wish
I had let you in on this—no, no—that
would have been fatal. You wouldn’t
quite understand my motives. Yes, I
have discovered how to force my men¬
tal suggestions upon another. There is
no mind strong enough to fight mine.”

“It’s done by some sort of electric
ray,” Downing said flatly.

The black cat sprang back as if in
alarm. Its malevolent eyes were wide
and cruel. Its mouth was agape and
sharp white teeth glistened.

“How did you know that?” St.
George’s voice demanded. “Tell me or
I shall rend you into pieces!”

CHAPTER V
Monster and Mouse

D OWNING was more than startled;
he was really scared.

“Hold it,” he implored. “I just
guessed. Before I entered this house
I noticed a big electric transformer on
an alley pole and some heavy cable
leading into your place. Coupled with
all those books you have bought an elec¬
trical apparatus—well, I just put two
and two together.”

The black cat sat down again, and its
tail ceased lashing. St. George’s quiet
laugh came from its throat.

“I might have known that was it,” he
said. “That transformer is a dead give¬
away. To get the power company to in-

THE GREAT EGO

stall it and furnish me the power I
needed I had to install some expensive
electrical machinery in my cellar. Later
on I sold the machinery at a slight loss.
But how did you hit upon electric
rays?”

“I was interested in this branch of
electronics in school,” admitted Down¬
ing. “My college courses were mostly
scientific, even though I didn’t follow
research work up after graduation.”

“A great pity,” the black cat chided
gently. “If you were an expert now,
you could be of great use to me. How¬
ever, you do happen to be the best audi¬
ence I have ever had—in fact, the only
one. Foster and the other cats know
nothing.”

“But how do those books of ancient
legends and fantastic lore you have also
been studying fit into the scheme?”
asked Downing in mock humility, feel¬
ing his way along. “I don’t grasp that
angle at all.”

The black cat almost purred. “Natu¬
rally, you don’t. When I put in almost
thirty years of hard study and research,
how could you expect to understand it
overnight, as it were? But I don’t mind
telling you somewhat about it. You’ll
never be able to tell another soul.”

This was an ominous statement.

“Go ahead,” invited Downing as
calmly as he could. “I am amazingly
interested.”

“I have no doubt,” agreed the black
cat dryly. “First of all, in early myth¬
ology, there is Zeus and his mate Maia
—the two greatest gods of ancient times.
Their son, Hermes, was called the god
of secrets and the originator of art,
science and magic.

“Hermes actually possessed vast pow¬
ers. The lesser gods learned from him.
And all these gods, contrary to popu¬
lar belief, originated in a pre-glacial
age. They were really a humanoid race,
survivors of a lost Golden Age when
science was greater than we know it
even today.”

“If there really were such so-called
gods,” Downing added skeptically.

“Don’t fret yourself,” St. George re¬
plied patiently. “There were. And

they left behind them all sorts of facts
which gradually became distorted into
fabulous legends. These tales were
handed down from mouth to mouth for
a long time before somebody took the
pains to write them down. Much was
lost, many facts were distorted and lost
their real meaning. But many of them
exist today upon priceless scrolls and
in hand-illuminated volumes. Half-
truths are these for the earnest scien¬
tific scholar to decipher.

“I have been doing so. In the light
of electro-magnetics and the various
emanations of little-understood rays, I
have been interpreting some of these
secrets. That is the sum and substance
of what I have done. I have welded
electronics and mythology together to
produce scientific power which the igno¬
rant will still call miraculous.”

“They certainly didn’t teach any¬
thing like that in school,” Downing ad¬
mitted, wondering just how much truth
there might be in what St. George had
said, and realizing that the other had
actually explained little.

“The ignorant teachers,” St. George
declared vehemently. “Now these so-
called legends contained real facts.
Down through the generations of man¬
kind the old sorcerers lived by them.
Their incantations were derived from
the old gods. These sorcerers didn’t
posses the powers of gods, of course, but
they did make good use of some of their
secrets.

“Why, Downing, these legends were
even used almost into modern times.
Were witches burned to death two cen¬
turies ago simply because people were
gullible? No! The judges and juries
that sentenced those witches to death
knew they had supernatural powers,
but they didn’t know those powers were
older than history itself and came from
the deeds of Hermes and the lesser
gods.”

S T. GEORGE ceased and yawned
enormously.

“Do you mean to say,” Downing
queried, “those witches really turned
people into frogs, for instance?”

STARTLING STORIES

“Perhaps they did,” the black cat an¬
swered. “We have no evidence to the
contrary and the people of those times
believed it. You see, Hermes and the
ancient gods could do it because they
had the power of Zeus behind them.
The sorcerers and witches had nothing
but their own faith. Yet if that was
strong enough, it may have worked.”

“Oh, come now,” Downing argued.
“Witches threw things into stew pots.
Hearts of sheep, the tail of a lizard, may¬
be some human blood. They did a lot
of mumbo-jumbo over the kettles and
black magic came forth. That’s non¬
sense.”

“Very well,” the black cat replied.
“I’ll grant their actions were non¬
sensical, but the right idea was behind
them. The witches and sorcerers knew
from those legends that there was some¬
thing which could give them great
power. They were searching for it, but
they did not have the benefits of mod¬
ern-day science nor the use of many old
scrolls which I have been laboriously
locating and collecting. I have the
benefit of both.”

“And just how did you incorporate
black magic with science?” Downing
asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” the
black cat spat out. “I shall say this
much. Hermes, Zeus and the others
really did turn people into any form of
life they desired. Not by mumbo-
jumbo, but by the powers they held.
The mumbo-jumbo came later, from
people who didn’t possess those powers
and had to alibi their strange actions
somehow. It was done by sheer force
of will. The gods had that will and
could use it, transmit it to others. Per¬
haps some of the more recent witches
also had the power. Perhaps it came
to them from the depths of Hades. But
I have those powers too and they come
from my own brain, skill, and studies of
those ancient books and legends. My
work of almost thirty years,”

“It is very interesting,” Downing
said and wondered if he was dealing
with a maniac. “I hope you don’t mind
my asking you those questions?”

“I am delighted,” St. George said with
genuine pleasure. “Now I can have
someone to talk with, to outline my ex¬
periments. There is still much to be
done. Later I shall explain a few
things to you.”

“That is hardly necessary,” Downing
answered. He was on dangerous
ground, but determined to carry on any¬
way. He had to know as much about
St. George’s secret as possible.

“You mean—you know?”

“Of course not, but I can guess. For
instance, X-rays are still a mystery.
Even their name suggests it. Sir
William Crookes developed them, but
he was never satisfied. You are prob¬
ably using his so-called ‘radiant mat¬
ter.’ By means of these rays you are
able to force your mental suggestions
into the mind and even the soul of your
victim. Yet I can’t see how you do it.
I noticed no ray machine here.”

The black cat laughed. “And there is
my great secret. The one I shall never
reveal,” St. George said. “The world
will consider it sorcery, witchcraft—
whatever it pleases. Only you will
know almost the truth. Downing, pay
attention. You are falling asleep.”

Downing blinked his eyes a few times.
It was warm and comfortable here. The
floor was inviting and he lay down, rest¬
ing his whiskered face against his paws.
There was nothing he would rather do
right now than sleep. After all, he was
a tiny kitten and should logically be
very tired after what had happened the
last few minutes.

Then he roused himself with a jerk.
He was not a kitten. He was Jim
Downing, possessed of a human brain
and the will power of an individual.

“I know how you feel,” St. George
chuckled. “It is very hard to keep
awake. A cat loves sleep so much.
You know, I’m a little afraid of you.”

“Why?” Downing asked. “With the
powers you possess I don’t see why you
should be afraid of anybody.”

“You are very clever and basically a
scientist. I must be very careful that
you do not learn too much about my
secret.”

THE GREAT EGO

T HIS was a prudent and natural pre¬
caution.

“But what happens to me?” Downing
asked. He could still think like a hu¬
man and a plan was slowly developing
in his mind.

“I’m afraid you will . .. just die. That
is, your body will die. Too bad, but
quite necessary.”

“May I ask how you intend to accom¬
plish this?”

“Yes, of course. It’s quite simple.
I’ll drag your body into the street and
let a car run over it, that’s all. You
won’t feel any pain because your mind
—your ego is inhabiting the body of a
kitten.”

Downing’s plan was getting clearer
and clearer. The only way to handle
this incarnate little devil was by decep¬
tion and trickery.

“And you, I suppose, can turn your¬
self back into your own body?”

“Any time I wish,” St. George re¬
plied. “I have only to make the proper
sign. I may even explain that sign to
you some day. When you have grown
into a very old cat and liable to die at
any time. Not before, Downing. My
secret is much too valuable.”

“I don’t think you’ll do anything of
the kind,” Downing said flatly.

The black cat reared up, tail lashing
furiously now.

“What do you mean?” St. George’s
voice demanded angrily.

“Put it down to an act of self-preser¬
vation or an act of Providence,” Down¬
ing said. “I had a strange feeling you
were more than you seemed to be. I
feared something might happen to me if
I came here alone. So I wrote out a
complete history of the Foster case. I
enclosed some of the telltale currency
with it and the whole business is locked
in my vault at the bank. You can’t
open it. Not even the president can
open it. I’m the only man.”

The black cat was crouched, as if
ready to spring. Downing didn’t care.
He had this black cat by the tail now
and knew it.

“When I am discovered dead,” Down¬
ing went on, “a legal order will be re¬

quired to open the box and there must
be witnesses. The letter I left will be
read and then, St. George, what’s going
to happen to you?”

“What if they do arrest me?” St.
George said. “What of it? Do you
think any cell can hold me?”

“Perhaps not, but you can’t lay your
hands on ready cash any more. You
can’t continue to pose as a poor bank-
teller. Or perhaps you don’t intend to
capitalize on this power of yours.”

“Of course, I don’t,” the black cat
surprisingly replied in St. George’s
voice. “Why should I when I am so
content? I needed money only to buy
more books, and there are still certain
scrolls I must have. Stealing them
don’t do. I might be caught. I must
keep my job. Downing, you will take
your human form again and get that
letter.”

“In a pig’s eye, I will,” Downing re¬
torted.

The black cat sat erect, raised one paw
and once more Downing saw that
strange sign created in thin air. Sud¬
denly the black cat seemed larger than
ever. It grew a hundred times. Down¬
ing laughed and eVen his voice had
changed. Instead of the usual mewing,
there was a thin, little squeak.

The black cat was walking around
him, forepaws bent, hindquarters in the
air. Its tail waved wildly. Its red
tongue licked at its whiskers. Downing
backed away in fear. This was real ter¬
ror, the kind that made blood run like
ice water, made the hair stand erect on
a man’s head. This was the unwhole¬
some terror of a nightmare. It was
unreal, inhuman.

A wave of colder air struck him. He
turned. The other cats were coming in
slowly, silently, with their beady eyes
on him. He moved backward and saw
one of his own paws. They’d changed.
They were not furred little paws, but
tiny, bony, taloned things.

Suddenly Downing knew what St.
George had done. Downing was no
longer a kitten, but a mouse. A tiny,
gray-furred thing that would scarcely
make a quick meal for any of those gap-

STARTLING STORIES

ing jaws before him. The pink, open
mouths that drooled. The cats started
to close in on him. Only the huge black
cat stayed in the background. St.
George was merely a spectator.

Downing tried to scream. Scream
as a human being does. A tiny, little
squeak issued from his throat and that
was all.

CHAPTER VI
Ace in the Hole

» OWNING’S new form tensed. He
knew that he was showing long,
white teeth. He knew his tiny, little
eyes glittered in ferocious terror. He
found time in his extremity to wonder
who the other two cats beside Foster
and Logan had been in human life.

There was a door directly opposite,
but the cats blocked that exit. Down¬
ing looked around frantically. It didn’t
seem strange to him that he searched
for a hole—a rat hole in the floor. He
scurried madly along the wall, hoping
against hope that there would be an
exit.

There was a single, poorly consoling
thought. St. George very probably didn’t
want him killed and this was just a les¬
son. Downing wondered how he’d ever
misjudged this apparently meek little
runt of a guy. Meek? The man pos¬
sessed colossal power and a vanity that
was astounding.

Yet those other cats wouldn’t know
that St. George only wanted to teach a
lesson. They’d follow instinct. He
was just a mouse—legitimate prey for
their claws and their sharp teeth.

The orange-colored cat leaped first.
Downing jumped forward beneath the
cat’s arched body. He narrowly evaded
a swiping blow from a black and white
cat. His rushing escape became a mad
flight as he sped across the hall, squeal¬
ing shrilly and trying to tell the cats
who he was. They’d been humans once
and if they understood, he’d be saved.
But how could they understand?

Downing spoke only in the language of
a mouse. These were cats who under¬
stood nothing but the cat language. All
he could do was run for it and pray he’d
find a hole somewhere.

He scooted through the next room,
saw a fireplace that looked something
like Boulder Dam to him. Luckily, there
was no fire in the grate and Downing’s
human mind told him there must be an
ash drop. If he could reach it, squeeze
through, he’d be safe.

Downing gave one quick look back¬
ward. The orange cat led the rest
of the pack and they were coming fast.
Downing reached the ash grate and
found it warped. There was an exit. As
he wriggled his slim form through the
narrow opening in the grate, the orange
cat slashed him across his left hind leg.

Agony shot through Downing’s body.
He dropped into black space, went down
. . . down for what seemed to be miles
to the cellar. Then he hit the bottom
where a heap of fine wood ash was piled
up. Dust rose around him in a huge,
choking cloud.

He could hear the savage yowling of
the cats far above him. Perhaps one of
the smaller animals could squirm
through that grate. Maybe St. George
would deliberately open it for them.
Downing ran around in a crazy circle
trying to find a way out of this ash pit.

Finally, he noticed a narrow ray of
light and leaped toward it. There was
a chink in the side wall of the ash pit.
He thrust his head through it, looked
around and then he managed to squeeze
his body all the way through. There was
a drop of about two feet to the cement
cellar floor, but it seemed like two miles
to Downing. Nevertheless, he jumped,
landed lightly and wondered what to
do next. The answer came with
promptness equally surprising and ter¬
rifying.

The huge, black cat in whose body
the mind of St. George reposed, am¬
bled from a dark corner and sat down,
licking its chops. Downing retreated.
The cat suddenly sprang. So did
Downing, but not quite far enough. A
paw darted out. Downing was lifted

THE GREAT EGO

from the floor out. Downing was lifted
about four feet.

Before he could dash to safety, the
black cat stood over him, mouth yawn¬
ing wide open, sharp white teeth flash¬
ing. The paw moved again and Down¬
ing tumbled over and over. The black
cat was playing with him. Torturing
him before the actual kill.

The sharp claws lacerated his body,
sending excruciating waves of pain
through his tiny system. Those claws
caught him again, deeply imbedded this
time and he was flung high into the air.
He hit a wall, bounced off it and went
limp. He couldn’t run any more. He
couldn’t even move. Breathing was
agony to his tortured lungs. It was bet¬
ter that this four-footed demon get it
over with.

The black cat actually sauntered over
this time, its sleek form moving with all
feline grace. The open mouth came
closer. Downing figured this was the
finish.

B BUT the cat backed up a bit, raised
* ® one paw and moved it. Downing
felt himself growing larger. He looked
down. He was a kitten again. , The
same little kitten he’d been before St.
George transformed him into a mouse.
He heard St. George’s jibing chuckle.
The black cat was laughing at him.

Downing, still examining his front
paws, noticed something else. At least
he had a human mind in that furred
body. There were huge footprints be¬
side him. The marks of shoes. Some
led straight to the wall, some away from
it, but a couple in particular were most
intriguing. Half of the shoeprint dis¬
appeared beneath the wall.

“How did you like my little game,
Downing?” St. George’s voice startled
him.

Downing looked over at the big black
cat. “St. George, what I said still goes.
You are a dangerous man. Your
knowledge is so evil it has no right to
exist. If the chance arose, I would ben¬
efit the world by killing you.”

“Oh, please,” St. George protested,
“don’t make me go through all this

again. Next time, I might not be able
to stop the other cats from reaching you.
If I can’t, they’ll toss you about just as
I did. Then, when you are too weak to
move, one of them would gobble you ip
before I could save you. Please listen
to reason, Mr. Downing.”

Downing thought fast. He was abso¬
lutely at the mercy of this cherubic¬
faced little man with supernatural pow¬
ers that he claimed were scientific. Per¬
haps this was a time to mollify the runt
and build up his one chance of freedom
again.

“I said,” Downing countered, “if I
ever had the chance, I ought to kill you.
Right now, I don’t see how I’ll ever find
that chance. I’ve had enough. Being
chased like a fox. Worse than that. A
fox gets a break now and then. You
hold the reins, St. George, and you
know how to twist the bit. I’ll be good.
I swear I will.”

“Ah,” the black cat purred, “that’s
what I wanted to hear you say. Now
follow me upstairs. I’ll change you
back into human form.”

“You will?” Downing pretended
stark amazement. “You really mean
it?”

“Of course,” the black cat said as he
walked slowly toward the steps. “How
else can I get those papers you locked
in your vault? We shall talk about it
later. Only I must warn you. Human
or not, always keep in mind the fact that
I can instantly change you into any
form I choose.”

“I won’t forget,” Downing said grim¬
ly. “How do you accomplish it, St.
George? I mean, by using that strange
sign?”

The black cat stopped and faced him.
For a moment Downing thought he’d
take another beating.

“And do not ask me that again,
either,” St. George snapped. “The se¬
cret I hold is mine alone. No one else
must share in it. It could be a danger¬
ous weapon in the hands of the wrong
people. Personally, I intend using it
only to further my own ambitions.”

“Yes,” Downing encouraged, “but
what are your ambitions?”

STARTLING STORIES

T HE black cat bounded up the steps
and Downing followed. He discov¬
ered he possessed extremely powerful
leg muscles and could move with more
agility than he ever thought possible.
Then he remembered that he was a kit¬
ten, a very young kitten at that.

At the top of the steps, St. George
stopped. That is, the black cat sat down
abruptly.

“You asked me about my ambition.
Primarily, it consists of doing my job at
the bank. Then there is my science.
I am far ahead of the world in certain
things, Downing. Very far ahead. Yet
I am not satisfied. I must go still fur¬
ther and I shall. Now please be patient
a moment.”

The black cat rose up, raised a paw
and again Downing saw that cabalistic
sign drawn in the air. The black cat
suddenly vanished. There was a heavy
step beside Downing and he involun¬
tarily scooted off beneath a chair for
protection. He looked up. St. George,
in his human form, looked at him with
a smile.

Downing braced himself. He won¬
dered what it would be like during the
journey back into his own human body.
St. George bent down and suddenly
seized Downing by one paw. He
dragged him out from under the chair,
tucked him beneath one arm and walked
into another room where he placed
Downing on the floor.

The four cats were there. They
seemed to have long since forgotten
about the episode of the mouse. Three
of them were curled up, asleep. The
fourth, a pure white animal, sat on a
window sill, looking longingly into the
brilliant moonlit night.

CHAPTER VII
Cat Conspiracy

A T THE sound of St. George’s foot¬
steps, the sleeping cats awoke
while the fourth one hastily jumped
from the window sill and all four ran

toward Downing.

The white cat spoke.

“Hello, there. Are you one of us?”

“I’m one of you,” Downing answered
grimly. “My name is Downing. Which
is Paul Foster?”

The orange-colored cat moved for¬
ward, sat down and, if a cat could smile,
this one did.

“Well, if it isn’t my old boss Down¬
ing. How are you, boss? I ought to
scratch that face of yours into ribbons.
You’re the one who found out about the
shortage and was set to call in the
cops.”

“Cool off, Foster,” Downing advised.
“We’re all in this. Who are the rest
of the—ah—boys?”

The white cat began licking its chops.
Foster glanced at it.

“I've a score to settle with you, Down¬
ing, and I warn you it will be settled.
But right now, seeing you’ll be here for
some time, I’ll show you about. The
white one is Peter Millbrook. He was
the five times married play-boy who dis¬
appeared seven or eight months ago.”

“Oh, yes,” Downing said in faint sur¬
prise. “Hello, Millbrook. I wonder
why St. George turned you into a cat
when you were known as the Broadway
Wolf.”

“I’ll tell you why,” the white cat said
sharply, “St. George was jealous of me,
that’s all. Jealous of my money and my
little way with women. I’m what he
would like to be only he doesn’t know it.
The night before I was to marry my
sixth wife, St. George came to my apart¬
ment and turned me into a cat because
he said he thought the girl I’d selected
was too good for me.”

“She probably was,” Downing said
dryly. “How do you like this life?”

“Well—not too bad. I was about to
be taken by the draft so I think I might
consider myself lucky.”

Paul Foster butted in. “You’ve met
our society representative. Now meet
the other side of the tracks. The striped
cat—Dirty Yellow, I call him—is a wife-
killer. St. George decided to punish
him. Then the black and white one is
Logan, the bandit who stuck up the

THE GREAT EGO

bank this morning. He won’t talk yet.
He thinks this is some kind of a trick
the cops are pulling.”

“And you,” Downing grunted. “The
man whose funeral I attended and shed
a few tears over. You were a very nice
looking corpse, Foster.”

“Wasn’t I?” Foster chuckled. “Oh,
yes, I saw myself. Quite an experience.
St. George took me in the pocket of his
overcoat. I kept very quiet and peeked
out. Extremely interesting, I must say.”

“Just for the record,” Downing in-
qui' °d, “how did St. George convert
youi’”

“Well—he caught me stealing a few
dollars and suggested I take a lot more.
I did, St. George just switched me into
a cat and kept the money. Then he
hanged my lifeless body and made it
appear suicide.”

“And you’re not sore at him?” Down¬
ing asked, amazed.

“I was at first,” Foster admitted.
“Scared, too, but now I realize that St.
George had to do it. He hopes to
recompense all of us, however. There
is another secret he is trying to dis¬
cover. When he does, things won’t be
so bad.”

Downing stretched himself on the
floor. He felt extremely tired. Foster
kept chattering and so did the other
cats, but Downing scarcely heard
them. He had one ear pressed against
the floor. St. George was going down¬
stairs to the cellar. Downing could hear
every step very plainly.

Then there was a click, like a door
opening in the cellar. Shortly after¬
wards, the lights dimmed for just a sec¬
ond, flickered a little, and then
steadied. Downing heard the whine of
some electrical instrument. It lasted
about three minutes before it was cut
off. The lights brightened. He heard
that same door open and close, followed
shortly by St. George’s mincing foot¬
steps mounting the stairs.

T HE footprints in the dust meant
something then. Part of St.
George’s horrible secret was hidden in
the cellar, behind a secret door. Down¬

ing knew where it was. He actually
felt elated. If his trick worked, he’d
have St. George with his back against
the wall and then he and the police
could investigate the secret of the cel¬
lar. Things were shaping up better
than Downing had thought they would.

“. . . and when he finds that informa¬
tion, he will grant us perpetual life.
Say, are you listening to me?” It was
Foster who spoke.

Downing looked up quickly. “What
was that you said—about perpetual
life?”

“St. George is seeking the answer to
it and he’ll find the answer. He promised
us we’d live forever and a man with his
present powers can develop more and
greater ones. I believe him.”

“To live forever, as a cat?” Downing
asked. “I’d rather be dead. In fact, I
can offer more hope than St. George.
He disposed of your bodies, suppose.
That means you can’t resume life as a
human being. I never thought of that
before. It rather complicates things.”

“What do you mean?” Foster asked
quickly. The other cats came closer.

“I meant that St. George is restoring
me to my own body very soon,” Down¬
ing said. “He must because I’ve got
him by the scruff of the neck. When I
have two feet and two arms, I’ll take
the little squirt apart. I’ll—hey, wait!
What the devil is wrong with you men
—cats?”

Foster stuck his nose almost against
Downing’s.

“You’ll do no such thing. You won't
even be returned to human form, do you
hear me? We’ll warn St. George. If
you harm him or have him arrested or
—or anything, we’ll all die. We don’t
want to die. Downing, so help me, we’ll
kill you if you try anything.”

“Let’s polish him off now,” the wife-
killer hissed. “No use taking chances.”

Downing scampered backward. “Now
hold it. I’ve got to return to my human
form. I left a letter telling what I
suspected about St. George. The police
are bound to investigate him if I don’t
show up. That will mean an end to you.
St. George will be tried for robbery.

STARTLING STORIES

Maybe murder.”

“Bah!” Foster said. “What of it?
St. George can get away from anybody.”

“But Downing is right,” Peter Mill-
brook put in. “St. George could trick
him, but they’d come here to look for
him, find us and we’d probably be done
away with.”

“He’s right,” the wife-killer agreed
reluctantly. “Better drop the whole
thing. Here comes St. George.”

The bantam-weight bank teller
minced into the room and smiled down
at his assortment of cats. He picked up
Downing and carried him out. As the
door closed, Peter Millbrook spoke.

“Foster, one of us must warn St.
George. We must make him turn him¬
self into a cat so he’ll understand.
That’s up to you.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Foster said.
“Another thing—if Downing comes
back as a cat, it’s our duty to kill him.
He’s always been a trouble maker.
Always on the right side of the fence.
Kill him, I say!”

In St. George’s living room, Downing
was put on the floor again. He mewed.
St. George found a small rubber ball and
bounced it on the floor. Downing raced
after it instinctively. His paw batted
the ball, sent it whipping into a corner
and he charged toward it. This was
good sport—until his legs became so
tired he could no longer stand up.

Then he stretched out on the floor
and idly washed his face with one paw.
He looked up at St. George, a huge
monster who sat in a worn leather chair,
eyes glued to a book that seemed al¬
most ready to fall apart.

A COUPLE of times St. George
glanced at him and smiled benign¬
ly. Otherwise, he remained strictly en¬
grossed in the dog-eared volume.
Downing curled up in a ball and began
purring. No matter how hard he tried
not to act like a kitten, it was no use.
He kept on purring until he was asleep.
Vaguely, just before he dropped off, he
heard the other cats mewing. They
were trying to attract St. George’s at¬
tention so he’d turn himself into a cat

and enable them to tell how Downing
hoped to work some trick.

Even that made no difference. Down¬
ing slept. St. George continued read¬
ing until the incessant mewing made
him frown. He carefully put the book
down and walked into the other room.
The cats rubbed against his legs. Fos¬
ter raised himself on rear paws and
tugged at St. George’s trouser leg with
his claws.

St. George frowned again. He raised
his hand and the cats moved back re¬
spectfully. Then St. George’s empty
human form stood there rigidly while
the big black cat leaped angrily down
at them.

“What’s the meaning of all this com¬
motion?” he snarled.

Foster moved forward.

“St. George,” he said eagerly, “we
thought you wouldn’t understand and
give us no chance to talk with you.
Downing is up to mischief. He intends
to get the best of you somehow.”

St. George’s voice came from the
black cat.

“Oh, my! I hoped he wouldn’t.
What is the matter with him?”

“He’s the bossy type. Got to have
things his own way. You know how he
acted in the bank. Listen. Just turn
him loose in here and we’ll take care of
him. Please—you’ve got to. We can’t
afford to let anything happen to you.”

“Thanks,” St. George purred.
“Thanks very much for your faith. Of
course, I know it is self-preservation
because your bodies have been buried
and there is no returning for any of you.
Yet, I do appreciate the warning. I
shall be on guard, don’t worry. Now I
must get back to my studies.”

“How is it coming?” Peter Millbrook
sat down beside Foster. “The idea of
giving us everlasting life, I mean?”

“Slowly,” St. George admitted. “Very
slowly, but I feel that I am on the right
track. There are books I need and I
shall get them, never fear. Meanwhile,
you are all comfortable, I hope?”

“There’s only one thing wrong,” Mill¬
brook said somewhat testily. “I get
lonely at times. I wonder if—no, I

THE GREAT EGO

mustn’t say it. Forgive me, St. George.”

“No, no. Speak up,” St. George en¬
couraged. “I want to do everything I
can to make all of you happy.”

“Well,” Millbrook said slowly.
“There’s a full moon tonight. I’d like
to go out. I know a Maltese that lives
up the road a bit. Nicely furred and
colored. Sleek, too. Reminds me of
some of the women I used to know. I’d
like—”

“No,” St. George said very firmly.
“No.”

CHAPTER VIII
Bailie of Wits

IM DOWNING awoke with a start.
Again, he saw two immense feet
before him. He blinked sleepily and
wondered if this was still part of his
ghastly dream. His mind seemed to be
human enough, but his body was still
a bundle of fur, paws, a tail, and whis¬
kers sticking out like stiff wires from
his cheeks.

He looked up. St. George stood there
with one hand raised. Downing’s mind
went blank for a moment and then he
roused himself for the second time. He
was sitting in a chair. He stirred, felt
pain in one arm and looked at the hand.
It was streaked with dried blood, as
though he’d been scratched.

“Feeling well this morning?” St.
George asked.

Downing sat bolt upright. It hadn’t
been a dream. He really had been a
kitten. A meek, inoffensive little kit¬
ten. Also, a mouse, which was worse.
And the man responsible for it all stood
in front of him now, wearing his in¬
credible frock coat, striped trousers and
derby hat with the bullet hole clumsily
repaired.

Downing jumped up and started
toward him. St. George gave a bleat
of alarm, backed away and raised his
right hand.

“Don’t do it,” he cried. “Don’t,
Downing, or I shall—”

Downing stopped short. His shoul¬
ders sagged and he emitted a long, dis¬
mal sigh.

“I forgot,” he said slowly. “I thought
for a moment it just couldn’t be. That
I’d been hypnotized. But these
scratches on my arms—they were made
by those cats and by you, St. George.
It was real all right.”

“Of course, it was real,” St. George
answered smoothly. “Now we are go¬
ing to the bank together. You remem¬
ber why, Downing?”

“Yes—to get that letter I wrote.
Okay, I’ll play your game, though
heaven knows what it is.”

St. George leaned against the wall
beside the door.

“Mr. Downing, I think it is time we
had an understanding about this. I am
not an ambitious man although I must
confess the power I hold is a gratifying
thing. For twenty-eight years I took
orders without argument. I am a small
person. I was pushed around unduly
until I came to hate large people, like
yourself, for instance.”

“You were never mistreated at the
bank,” Downing reminded him.

“Of course not. That is, a few minor
employees went out of their way to tease
me, but I paid no attention. Odd how a
man with power can forgive others
stronger, larger than he. It must be the
fact that in my mind I knew other men
were far below me in mental capacity
and in actual power.”

“Did it ever occur to you,” Downing
said slowly, “that once you reveal this
power, people will be afraid of you? You
will walk alone, like a leper or a man
accursed in some other fashion. There
will even be those willing to kill you.”

“That I know, too,” St. George
nodded somberly. “Yet they will all un¬
derstand some day that I am not to be
trifled with. That I must be respected
—yes, even honored. A few will be con¬
verted as I see fit. Examples, you know.
Then I shall simply sit back and let
the world wait on me. That shall be the
fruits of my labor.”

Downing repressed a shiver. “There
is another man with similar ideas, St.

STARTLING STORIES

George. His name is Schickelgruber—
or maybe you didn’t even know we were
at war.”

“Indeed I do know,” St. George
snapped. “The last time I needed a re¬
placement part for my machine, it was
most difficult to get and I was literally
robbed as to the price. The person who
did that is on my list of examples. I
think I shall turn him into a leech.”

“And that,” Downing said, “is tanta¬
mount to pure murder.”

“Murder? No, it can’t be classified
that way. Yet I really don’t care much.
I mean to have my own way. Nothing
will stop me because I am supreme. I
say that honestly and without boasting.
Meanwhile—until that day—I must be
unmolested. There are many things yet
to be done.”

“Suppose,” Downing said curtly, “we
get down to the bank and have it over
with. You’re the boss now. How do we
pull it?”

S T. GEORGE told him as they walked
from the bus toward the bank. The
doors opened as if controlled by a timer,
for St. George was right on the dot.
The guards saluted Downing, muttered
a greeting to St. George. The two men
walked through the lobby and straight
into Downing’s office.

“Now you quite understand,” St.
George said, “we shall go together to
the safe deposit vaults as soon as they
are opened. You will remove your box
and bring it here to this office. I shall
be with you all the time. If anyone
wants to know why, it is bank business.”

Downing sat in his accustomed chair
behind the desk and wondered if he’d
ever be there again. St. George was
bound to tur him into a kitten when
he turned over the letter. That is, if
his trick failed.

St. George was beside him every mo¬
ment. Twice, the insignificant little
runt raised his hand as a warning
gesture when Downing turned on him
with fury blazing in his eyes.

In the privacy of his office again, with
the box, St. George became impatient.
“Open it, Mr. Downing. Quickly. I

scarcely slept a wink all night worry¬
ing about the contents of this box.”

Downing raised the lid slowly.
“Well, you can stop worrying now. St.
George, give me a break, will you? I’ll
keep my mouth shut—”

“Is there any money in there?” St.
George disregarded Downing’s plea.
“You won’t need it and I shall. There
are books I must have, but some of the
money I shall spend on you. Yes, in¬
deed. Good food. Cream, kidneys,
calves’ liver, crab meat. The very best
for you, Downing.”

Downing looked at the smaller man.
He shook his head slowly from side to
side.

“I can’t figure it out, St. George. First,
you threaten me. Now, you try bribery.
When I was a kitten, you batted me all
over the place. In one breath, you de¬
mand my money; in the next, you agree
to use part of it for my comfort and
darned if I don’t believe you.”

“I mean it,” St. George answered.
“The letter, man! Give it to me.”

“Wait a minute.” Downing held the
box away from St. George’s eager hands.
“Suppose we make a bargain. There
are two thousand dollars in cash in this
box. But I have more. Much more, in
my accounts at this bank and others.
Now I can’t prevent you from turning
me into a kitten. Yet this money can be
yours very easily.”

“How?” St. George asked. “I’m quite
interested.”

“Let me walk out of here with you.
At your home, go ahead and change me
into a kitten, but put my body some¬
where. Keep it intact and let me return
to it now and then. I’ll make with¬
drawals and turn the money over to
you.”

St. George wagged a finger under
Downing’s nose, and the assistant cash¬
ier blanched and moved back a step. St.
George chuckled.

“No, I won’t convert you yet. But
your proposition is wrong. All wrong.
I knew you’d try something like this.
You see, Foster warned me last night
to be careful. No, Downing. I shall
convert you right here. They’ll find

THE GREAT EGO

you behind your desk, apparently
dead.”

Downing groaned, but inwardly he
was elated. St. George had been look¬
ing for a trick and believed this was it.
Downing had something else up his
sleeve. Something much more direct.

“Don’t feel so badly about it,” St.
George urged soothingly. “Really
things won’t be so bad. They’ll give
you a beautiful funeral and, if you wish,
I’ll take you to it as a kitten. Foster
had that experience and found it most
interesting. Now—the letter.”

Downing handed the whole tin box to
him. St. George smiled wryly and took
it with his left hand, keeping the right
half-raised. He laid the box on the
desk, rummaged through it and tucked
the cash into his pocket. Then he found
the letter.

“Ah, good. Very good. I shall pro¬
ceed to destroy it.”

WTHTE LAID the letter on the edge of
the desk, using only one hand
always. He picked up Downing’s table
lighter, snapped it and applied the flame
to a corner of the letter. Slowly the
letter was consumed and St. George kept
moving it about as the fire ate into the
paper.

Downing edged a bit closer and St.
George paid no attention. He was too
absorbed in watching the letter burn.
Downing sucked in a long breath and
then exhaled violently. The blast
caught the small bit of paper still on
the desk, whisked it off and as it fell,
St. George bent to seize it.

At that moment, Downing jumped.
Before St. George could straighten, turn
and raise his hand, Downing had both
his arms pinned securely in a painful
lock, behind his back.

“You can’t perform that devilish sign
without the use of your hands,” Down¬
ing gloated. “Now we’ll see who is boss.
You’re going to the cops, St. George,
and I’ll stand behind you with a gun.
If you so much as lift a finger, I’ll blow
your brains out. You’re done. Fin¬
ished.”

“Please don’t hold me so tightly,” St.

George protested. “I’m afraid you may
break a rib.”

Downing gasped. This certainly
wasn’t the reaction he expected and it
offered him no comfort whatsoever. St.
George should have been stark mad with
terror and pleading for a chance. Yet
he took this very calmly.

St. George was gazing down at the
burning letter. When it was consumed
to ashes, he flicked out one foot and
crushed the ashes to dust. Then he did
an amazing thing. He began to scream
for help at the top of his lungs.

“Shut up,” Downing rasped. “Keep
quiet or I’ll knock you cold.”

“Help,” St. George yelled. “Help!
Help!”

Someone flung open the door. It was
a guard with his hand on a holstered
gun. He took one look and started yell¬
ing himself. In a moment, two more
guards were there and Henry Arnold,
austere president of the Bank, elbowed
his way into the office.

“What in the world—” he began.

“Mr. Downing, sir,” St. George
whined. “He’s gone mad. He attacked
me. He was burning things. He—”

“Arnold,” Downing said, holding St.
George firmly and turning him so they
were both facing the staring group,
“listen to me. You must listen. I’m
not crazy. St. George turned me into a
kitten. He did the same thing to Paul
Foster. Then he hanged his lifeless
body. He even took Foster to his own
funeral. St. George isn’t the meek little
runt he looks or acts. He has super¬
natural powers. He—”

Arnold hastily moved back until he
was surrounded by the guards. He said
something in a low voice. Two of the
guards took hitches in their belts and
started toward Downing.

Downing sensed what was about to
happen. He saw too late St. George's
neat little trick. Everything was clear
now. He’d placed himself in a ghastly
spot.

“Arnold, I’m as sane as you are. St.
George can turn people into cats or dogs
or mice. Anything! I tell you he can
do it. He—”

STARTLING STORIES

T HE two guards leaped. Downing’s
grip was broken and they held his
hands firmly by the wrists. St. George
minced over to Arnold, methodically
straightening the wrinkles in his
sleeves as he did so.

“I don’t know what came over him,
sir. He asked me to go to the safe
deposit vaults with him. Naturally, I
obeyed because he is my superior. He
brought the box back here, opened it
and began burning things. I remon¬
strated with him and he turned on me.
He said I was a magician. He accused
me of changing him into a kitten. Natu¬
rally, I screamed for help.”

“Yes, yes, I can see he’s out of his
mind,” Arnold said nervously. “I’ve al¬
ready sent for a doctor.”

Downing shrieked. “Arnold, he’s
dangerous! Oh, confound it, why won’t
someone believe me? I’m not crazy.
His hands. They are free. If he raises
one of them and makes the sign, you’ll
all turn into cats. I’ve seen it done.
Please believe me!”

Downing strained against the grip of
the two guards and got one arm free.
It was grabbed again almost instantly.
The guard on his left gave Arnold a pe¬
culiar look and received a curt nod. The
guard doubled one fist.

“I hate to do this, Mr. Downing,” he
said sincerely. “You’re a good guy, but
we can’t take chances with a wack.”

His fist traveled about three feet and
collided with Downing’s jaw. That
guard had once been a policeman and he
knew how to slug. Downing went limp
and they eased him onto a chair.

St. George tottered over to another
chair and sat down. He was shaking
visibly.

“Poor Mr. Downing,” he said. “I
liked him very much. He was my friend
as well as my superior. Did I hear him
say I turned people into cats?”

“You did,” Arnold answered grimly.
“He’s stark raving mad. The doctor
will be here soon and an ambulance. I’d
better have them bring a straitjacket.
too. No telling what he may do when
he wakes up.”

A guard drew his gun and hefted it

significantly. “He won’t do much, sir.
I’ll tap him if he starts anything.”

St. George blew his nose very dain¬
tily and tucked the handkerchief away.

“He probably associated the fact that
I found a cat in the police station yes¬
terday. I told him about it this morn¬
ing. Poor Mr. Downing. His twisted
mind thought I’d created that cat. Poor,
poor Mr. Downing.”

There was a triumphant little smile
on St. George’s lips. A malicious glint
in his eyes. Nobody noticed it. St.
George had gone so long unnoticed
even an event of this kind couldn’t at¬
tract much attention to him.

CHAPTER IX
Eavesdropper

R ODNEY ST. GEORGE padded be¬
hind Arnold to the president’s
massive office. During his twenty-eight
years at the bank, St. George hadn’t been
in that office a dozen times.

Arnold sat down and motioned St.
George to a chair.

“It’s a terrible thing,” he said. “A
nice, young fellow like Downing going
off that way. Terrible. I had plans for
that man. Great plans. Now I must
find someone else. St. George, you have
worked faithfully for our bank many
years. More faithfully than anyone
who ever worked here. Therefore, I
shall reward you. You shall take Down¬
ing’s place as assistant cashier.”

St. George’s face colored slightly and
then turned pale.

“Th-thank you, sir. I am honored.
Highly honored. I—”

From somewhere in the bank, Down¬
ing’s voice reached them. He was
shouting about cats and St. George’s
weird power. There were sounds of a
struggle and then silence.

St. George shivered. “I hope they
don’t have to use too much force on him.
Poor Mr. Downing. As I was saying—
I am deeply honored. I shall do every¬
thing in my power to carry out my

THE GREAT EGO

duties. Everything, Mr. Arnold.”

“Good,” Arnold said. “Take over
Downing’s office at once. That’s all.”

St. George minced out of the office,
closed the door firmly and silently be¬
hind him and then literally skipped
across the lobby of the bank toward
Downing’s office.

Arnold leaned back in his big chair
and expelled his breath tremulously.

“What maniacs will think of. Imagine
St. George turning people into cats.
Why, the little mouse couldn’t do a
simple card trick. Wonder if he’ll
change with more responsibility.”

Meanwhile Jim Downing was
strapped to a stretcher inside the am¬
bulance and taken for a fast, siren-
moaning ride. They journeyed well out
of the main part of the city and finally
turned off through the imposing gates
of a big estate. The gates closed and
two uniformed guards took up positions.

Downing was unstrapped on his prom¬
ise to behave. They led him into the
building, firmly holding him by both
arms. One of the guards tapped on a
door marked, “Dr. Michael Jamison.”

Downing walked in and sat down. Dr.
Michael Jamison turned out to be a thin¬
faced, hawk-nosed individual whom
Downing instinctively disliked. Jami¬
son looked at him intently for a mo¬
ment.

“Do you know your name?” he asked
quietly.

“Certainly,” Downing snapped. “It’s
Jim Downing. Look here, I’m not crazy.
Oh, I realize my story sounds foolish,
but that little squirt St. George did
turn me into a cat. A kitten, rather.”

“He what?” Jamison half arose from
his chair. “What did you say?”

“He turned me into a kitten. Some¬
how, he took my spirit, my brain, my
soul perhaps, and wrapped them all up
inside of a kitten. But I wasn’t the
only one. There was Paul Foster who
committed suicide, only he didn’t.
Foster was turned into a cat also and St.
George hanged his lifeless body. You
. . . don’t believe me, do you?”

"Why, of course, I do,” Dr. Jamison
said soothingly. “Certainly, Mr. Down¬

ing. Now you are going to be very well
treated here. Your bank has asked us
to give you the very best of care. First
of all, a cold shower. A very cold shower
to soothe your nerves. You’ve been
through a great deal, you know. Turn¬
ing from a human into a kitten and then
back into a human again.”

“Thanks,” Downing grunted. “I’m
glad somebody believes—oh, what the
devil! You agree because it’s supposed
to soothe me. Listen—may I telephone
someone first? My fiancee?”

“It can be arranged,” Dr. Jamison
agreed. Then he added, prudently,
“After you have showered and been as¬
signed to your room.”

W^OWNING cursed under his breath,
but restrained his temper. To go
off the handle here would only mean
forcible restraint. An hour later he was
in bed, calmly thinking out the details of
the last twenty-four hours. After all,
this was better than being a kitten at the
mercy of St. George and his assortment
of cats who were determined to murder
him to preserve their own lives.

So long as he remained in this hos¬
pital, Downing was in no imminent
danger. St. George wouldn’t dare try
any of his tricks. Downing relaxed, lit
a cigarette and even whistled softly.

St. George was an odd personality—
leaving out the power he possessed. Ap¬
parently meek and self-effacing, he was
little short of a recluse. But he was
coming out of that shell now. That re¬
tiring nature was undergoing a change.
He could become the greatest menace
the world had ever known and, worst of
all, St. George knew it.

St. George had mentioned the fact that
he still sought information. Was he
merely laying low, adhering to his
character of a meek, inoffensive little
men until he mastered all phases of this
weird power? Downing began to think
so.

The door of his room opened and Dr.
Jamison walked in. He sat down beside
the bed, took Downing’s pulse and made
a few notes on a pad. Then he leaned
back, crossed his legs and regarded the

STARTLING STORIES

patient intently.

“Tell me all about it,” he urged. “Fre¬
quently, it helps a man to talk. Go ahead.
I won’t laugh. That’s a promise.”

“You won’t laugh.” Downing scowled.
“If you’d been through what happened
to me, laughter would be no part of it.
St. George did transform me into a kit¬
ten. He formerly did the same thing
to several other people including one
rather famous person called Peter Mill-
brook.”

“Peter Millbrook,” Jamison grunted.
“I knew him. He was an alcoholic and
we had him confined here for some time.
So he is a cat now. You realize, Mr.
Downing, that Peter Millbrook was pro¬
nounced dead and decently buried some
weeks ago.”

“They buried an empty corpse,”
Downing said flatly. “St. George doesn’t
just switch a man into a cat. He creates
the cat out of the victim’s brain and
soul. The body becomes inert. All the
run has to do is make that funny sign
in the air—”

“What sign?” Jamison asked sharply.

Downing shrugged. “What’s the use?
You’re wasting my time and I’m wast¬
ing yours.”

“No. I’m very much interested. Show
me the sign he made.”

Downing raised one hand, drew a
straight line in the air and then wound
another invisible line around the first.

“So that’s it.” Jamison nodded.
“Thank you, Downing. By the way,
Miss Brooke knows you are here and is
coming to see you. I don’t know whether
or not it is quite advisable.”

“Nonsense,” Downing declared. “I’m
as sane as you, doctor. It would do me
a world of good to see her.”

Jamison nodded and walked out. He
closed the door softly and then began
moving very fast toward his private of¬
fices. There he locked the door, went to
a bookcase and drew out an old, old
volume. He sat down and studied it in¬
tently.

“Blazes!” he said. “I haven’t been
wrong then. It can be done. Someone
just beat me to it, that’s all. Rodney
St. George who works at the bank, eh?

Good. I shall see Mr. St. George and
take steps to see that he does not change
me into something or other. I must talk
with Downing again. St. George didn’t
switch him back to a kitten again, and
there must be some reason for it. Per¬
haps something to do with making the
sign.”

Dr. Jamison’s thin face was alight as
he stared into space. His eyes burned
in an unholy glee and one hand kept
stroking the ancient volume on his desk
as though it were a living, breathing
thing.

H E AROSE finally, put the book
away and went back to Downing’s
room. The door was ajar and he heard
a woman’s voice. Jamison peeked in,
saw Pamela Brooke there and took up a
position from where he could hear every
word. This was nothing new. None of
the hospital employees would think
twice about Jamison’s actions if they
saw him. A psychiatrist tries to listen
in on his patient’s normal conversation.

Pamela held both of Downing’s hands
and she looked extremely worried. He
told her, in a low voice, the entire story.

“Finally,” he went on, “I found my
chance. I grabbed St. George’s arms
and kept him from using a hand to make
that sign. He has to make it, Pam. I’ve
proven that. I—I guess you think there’s
no hope. You can’t possibly believe me.”

Pamela said very quietly, “I do be¬
lieve you, Jim. I believe you because I
know you. The story sounds like the
ravings of a lunatic. They’ll probably
hold you here for a long time and you’ll
be safe here, too. I’m glad you’re in this
hospital.”

“So am I,” Downing sighed. “Pam,
you’re not saying you believe just to
bolster up my spirits? You do realize
that St. George is probably one of the
most powerful men on the face of the
earth?”

“I do, Jim. I felt there was something
—well, sinister about him when you
pointed him out to me yesterday morn¬
ing.”

Downing closed both eyes. “What I
can’t understand is why he doesn’t as-

THE GREAT EGO

sert himself. Why he still insists on
playing the part of a meek little guy.
He did mention that he was on the trail
of something even bigger. That means
something deadlier, more grotesque,
Pam. We’ve got to stop him.”

“We will, Jim. We will because you
and I are on the right side. A man with
the knowledge St. George possesses
doesn’t belong on earth. Jim, under¬
stand, I do believe you. I recognize the
danger you are in.”

“Danger!” Downing sat bolt upright.
“I never thought of it. Pam, you must
leave here and don’t come back unless
I send for you. If St. George finds out
you believe my story, he may do some¬
thing to you. We are both in danger.
Terrible danger.”

Pamela arose. She opened her purse
and calmly repaired some damage to her
makeup which had suffered from Down¬
ing’s greeting kiss.

In the small vanity mirror she saw
Dr. Jamison’s white-coated form
through the crack in the door. She be¬
trayed no sign.

“I’ll come back,” she said. “I’m not
afraid, Jim. Spend your time thinking.
Try to figure out some way to either
reveal him for what he is or a method
by which we can—kill him if necessary.
Good-by, darling. I’ll return soon.”

She bent over him as if to kiss
•him good-by. Instead she whispered:

“Jim, Dr. Jamison is listening to all
this. I had a glimpse of his face in my
mirror. He comes to the bookstore
where I work—and he is interested in
old volumes.”

Downing frowned. “Thanks for the
information, darling. Mostly though,
thanks for having faith. I will think
of something. Never mind about Jami¬
son. He is interested in me only as a
patient, nothing more.”

Dr. Jamison was nowhere in sight
when Pamela left the room. She sig¬
naled that fact to Downing. He leaned
back against the pillows and his eyes
narrowed a bit. Jamison had seemed
intensely interested, especially in the
weird sign which St. George made.
Now Pamela’s information that he was

also a customer at her store for ancient
tomes, the same things from which St.
George had derived his powers, was dis¬
turbing.

Was Dr. Jamison quite as innocent as
he seemed? Downing groaned. He had
enough to figure out now. Jamison only
added another complication.

CHAPTER X
Birth of an Ego

R OCCO, swarthy cashier, head
waiter, pastry server and, inci¬
dentally, owner of the Italian Spaghetti
Palace, glanced through the front win¬
dow of his restaurant and distorted his
face into an unpleasant grimace. He
clapped his hands.

“Luigi,” he called. “Come here.”

A bantam-sized, bow-legged waiter
hurried over.

Rocco said, “Luigi, he comes. Today
it is your turn. There is to be no
squawking, you hear me?”

Luigi glanced at the door, doubled
both fists and bit his lips to keep from
exploding into voluble Italian curses as
Rodney St. George minced into the res¬
taurant and walked toward his usual
table in a far corner.

“Him!” Luigi grew belligerent. “Mr.
Five Cents. I wait on him like he leaves
five dollars and I get five cents.
Rocco, give me permission to dump the
‘spaghet’ down his neck, si? Just once
—please.”

Rocco grunted, “Some day maybe I do
it myself. But business is business.
He spends thirty cents each day. Spa¬
ghet and coffee. And always the second
cup even when we cannot afford to give
it to him. He has eaten here for many
years, he tells me, and has it coming.
Serve him, Luigi. There is nothing we
can do.”

Luigi tugged at the lapels of his coat,
muttered something in Italian and
walked over to draw a glass of water.
His forefinger was stained somewhat
with sauce. He thrust it into the water

STARTLING STORIES

and stirred it around. Then he felt a
little better.

“Ah, good afternoon, Meester St.
George,” he bowed ironically. “You
wish the same as usual, perhaps?”

St. George looked up and nodded.
“Yes, please, and tell the chef to put a
bit more sauce on the spaghetti, will
you? I have heard of no priorities in
sauces.”

“Si, Meester St. George. Of course.
I go now.”

Rodney St. George fingered the menu
idly and wondered what he should do
about Jim Downing. The man had pulled
a fast one. He was dangerous. Nothing
must happen now. St. George was ready
to take any steps, but wasn’t it wiser to
just let Downing remain in an asylum
as a lunatic? Who would believe his
wild story? St. George permitted him¬
self to smile. That was the answer. Just
let him stay there. If he got out it would
be easy enough to find him and see that
he caused no interference.

• St. George leaned back. Someone stood
beside him and he thought it was Luigi
with his lunch.

“Aren’t you Mr. St. George?” a pleas¬
ant feminine voice inquired.

St. George almost fell out of his chair.
In his twenty-eight years of eating
lunches in this place, nobody had ever
spoken to him before. He looked up
and gave a startled gasp. St. George had
seen beautiful women before. He ap¬
preciated them, too, though no one ever
guessed it. This woman was enough to
take his breath away.

“Y-yes. Yes, I’m Rodney St. George,”
he half arose. “Oh, I recognize you now.
You are Miss Brooke, who helped me so
often at the book store. I shall always
be very grateful.”

“May I sit down?” Pamela Brooke
asked and, without waiting for an affirm¬
ative reply, pulled out a chair and sat
down. “My first name is Pamela. I am
—was the fiancee of Jim Downing.”

“Oh,” St. George gulped, “Oh, my.
I did see you at the bank with him. I’m
very sorry about Mr. Downing’s break¬
down.”

“Isn’t it terrible?” Pamela said. “They

let me see him. All he does is rave about
having been changed into a cat. He
seems to hold you responsible, Mr. St.
George. I wonder how he ever acquired
such a hallucination. I understand you’ve
taken his place at the bank and I want to
ask a favor.”

“Y—yes?" St. George’s eyes were very
wide.

“Poor Jim has no one. I feel responsi¬
ble for him. Naturally, there is little I
can do, but with your help I might re¬
move his possessions from the bank and
keep them.”

“Of . . . course,” St. George said un¬
certainly, still a little stunned by the
idea of an attractive woman at his table.
“W—won’t you join me in some lunch?”

“Thank you,” Pamela answered. “I
shall be delighted.”

T HEN St. George went whole hog.

“Perhaps some wine? They tell me
it is very good here.”

“Chianti,” Pamela said promptly. “The
inexpensive kind.”

Luigi, the waiter, came closer to faint¬
ing than ever before in his life. Some¬
how, he summoned the strength to fill
that order and serve a luncheon to Pam¬
ela.

She said to St. George, “They tell me
at the hospital there is little chance of
Jim’s getting better. He isn’ violent, but
the particular form of insanity with*
which he is afflicted happens to be al¬
most incurable. Thank heavens we
weren’t married.”

She said that somewhat callously, St.
George thought. They talked about Jim
then, for the rest of the meal. They
walked to the bank together, astounding
a bootblack, a newsstand dealer and a
traffic cop, all of whom never thought
they’d live to see the day when Rodney
St. George walked with a woman.

The bank employees were considerably
upset, too. St. George personally made
a neat package of Downing’s possessions
and Pamela took this.

“I’ve had a lovely time, Mr. St.
George,” she smiled. “If I can ever do
anything for you . ..”

Pamela caught the glint of interest in

THE GREAT EGO

St. George’s eyes.

“Perhaps you can,” he said. “There
are one or two scrolls I am looking for.
Your firm may be able to locate them for
me. May I call on you at the store?”

“I’ll be there,” she told him.

St. George watched her walk out and
knew there was now a rival for the ela¬
tion he’d experienced when his experi¬
ments worked for the first time. It oc¬
curred to him that he’d missed some¬
thing these many years. He wasn’t an
old man. Not too bad looking, either.
And he was exceptional. Oh, yes, quite
exceptional.

Why shouldn’t he take Pam away from
Downing? After all, Downing was
doomed to spend his life behind the bars
of an asylum.

To the victor go the spoils. St. George
pursed his lips and whistled as he went
to work. Something else that was ut¬
terly new. It did occur to him that he’d
been so flabbergasted at Pamela’s join¬
ing him for lunch that he’d forgotten to
leave more than five cents for Luigi. He
determined to attend to that tomorrow.
He’d leave a dime to make up for it.

On his way home, St. George had an
uneasy feeling that he was being fol¬
lowed. He tried to shake it off, but the
sense of danger persisted. Even while
he was on the bus, he felt eyes burning
into the back of his head. He stopped
only to buy liver and milk and walked
rapidly toward his house.

A woman of ample girth was approach¬
ing. She lived next door and had never
spoken to him, but now she smiled and
inclined her head.

“Good evening, Mr. St. George. Con¬
gratulations on being promoted to cash-

St. George started to correct her. He
was just the assistant. Then he let it
go. If she wanted to think he was the
cashier, that was all right. It was about
time he drew some respect from these
eyebrow-raising people who were his
neighbors.

He tipped his hat, walked on to the
house and let himself in. Turning quick¬
ly, he peeked through a window. There
was a tall, angular, hawk-faced man walk¬

ing casually by. A stranger. St. George
recalled seeing him on the bus, too.
Maybe Downing had hired private detec¬
tives. Maybe someone had believed him,
after all.

S T. GEORGE shivered. There was a
chance that this stranger was in no
way concerned with that sense of being
trailed. It could be that Downing had
escaped or been allowed his freedom. St.
George kicked aside the mewing cats,
walked into his living room and phoned
the sanitarium.

“Mr. Downing’s condition is about the
same,” someone told him. “He is resting
quietly.”

“Poor Mr. Downing,” St. George said.
“Thank you very much.”

He hung up slowly and berated him¬
self for being a fool. Then he glanced
down. All four of his cats sat in a row
before him, all looking up.

St. George scowled at them. “Con¬
found you,” he said. “I think I’m get¬
ting sick of having you around.”

Foster, the orange-colored cat, came
closer and tugged with its claws at St.
George’s trouser leg. St. George raised
his hand and made the sign. His human
form grew rigid. On the floor the big
black cat appeared. Not like a wraith,
slowly forming from plasma, but spon¬
taneously—like a puff of smoke might
suddenly rise from an explosion.

“St. George, we’ve been terribly wor¬
ried,” Foster said. “What happened to
Downing?”

“First of all,” St. George said, “I want
this nonsense of making me turn into a
cat every time you wish information, to
be stopped. Is that understood? Once
and for all, please remember that I am
master here. Now what do you wish to
know this time?”

“It’s Downing,” Foster said and pru¬
dently added, “sir. Watch out for him.
He is clever.”

“Downing,” St. George said, “is now
confined to an asylum as a hopelessly in¬
sane person who believes people can be
turned into cats. They removed him in
a straitjacket. Does that satisfy you?”
“No,” Foster said, “it doesn’t. I don’t

STARTLING STORIES

mean to be rude, sir, but you’d be safer
if you brought him back here, turned him
into a kitten and let us finish him off.”

“I can take care of Downing,” St.
George said irritably. “I might add that
his fiancee had lunch with me today. She
is an extremely nice girl. I’m very fond
of her.”

“Pam Brooke?” Foster cried. "She’d
stick with Downing no matter what hap¬
pened. They’re laying a trap for you.
Bring her here. Let us kill her for you.”

The black cat eyed the other four with
malevolently green eyes.

“You—all of you,” St. George’s voice
emanated from the black cat, “are wor¬
ried about one thing. Your own safety.
It is no longer possible for any of you to
return to your human forms because your
bodies have been disposed of. The great¬
est fear you possess is that you will not
live very long. Am I correct?”

“Well—yes, sir.” Foster still acted as
spokesman. “Cats live about twelve years.
We’re grown cats, half our life probably
gone. You promised we’d be granted
eternal life, sir. You said there was a
book somewhere which held the secret.”

“There is,” the black cat purred. “I’m
rapidly getting on the trail of it and
Miss Brooke can help me find it. She
works for one of the best book stores in
the world. They specialize in finding
lost documents and scrolls. So by ac¬
quiring her friendship, I am also helping
you. Now that is quite all, my feline
gentlemen.”

P ETER MILLBROOK, the white cat,
hissed at St. George.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Not sure at
all. How do we know you’re not jolly¬
ing us along. What have you to go on?”

“Yes,” Foster joined in, “we’re entitled
to some measure of comfort.”

The black cat bared sharp fangs and
hunched its back a little. St. George’s
voice, coming from the black cat’s throat,
was no longer patient.

“Very well,” he snapped. “I shall tell
you this much. Tonight I am seeking a
scroll. I have been on the trail of it for
weeks and I know where it is. It was
written by Hermes Trismegistrus, the

father of all magic and alchemy. What
I know concerning these powers I ob¬
tained by studying his works. A man
named Lloyd Chandler now owns it, but
he doesn’t realize its value nor does any¬
one else but me. When I master the
secrets it contains, I shall then know
what to look for next. What will enable
me to turn each of you from an aged
cat into a kitten so you may enjoy your
lives all over again.”

“Sounds like poppycock to me,” Mill-
brook observed. “I think we’re being
stalled or kidded.”

The black cat suddenly vanished and
St. George’s human form got out of the
chair. He took a single step toward the
white cat which was Peter Millbrook.
His foot kicked out and the white cat
went catapulting back to hit the wall
with a resounding thud.

The other cats scampered hastily be¬
neath chairs and tables.

“He’s gone crazy,” the orange cat
squalled. “He never did that before.”

“I wish I’d plugged the little rat when
I stuck him up in the bank,” Logan
snarled.

“Wait,” Foster gasped. “I think I
know what’s happening. St. George has
suddenly discovered himself. Found he
has an ego that has been deflated up to
now. That dame Pamela Brooke is blow¬
ing him up with a sense of his own im¬
portance. With some reason in mind,
too. Downing isn’t licked yet and I’ve
a feeling he’ll get the best of us if we
don’t get him first.”

“But how?” Millbrook reeled over as
if he had too much catnip. “How can
we reach him?”

“I don’t know,” Foster confessed.
“We’re handicapped, but I can tell you
this much. Life won’t be so pleasant
from now on. St. George will pay less
and less attention to us. As his ego
blows up, he’ll stop thinking about any¬
one except himself. We’ll be lucky if—”

The sound of shattering glass broke
off Foster’s words. All four cats jumped
nervously. The sound came from the
cellar.

“Downing!” Fester hissed, and his tail
began to swell.

THE GREAT EGO

CHAPTER XI
One Little Item

T. GEORGE heard the crash of glass,
too, and raced madly toward the
cellar door. He switched on the lights
and ran down the steps. With a sigh of
relief he noticed that the steel bars were
in place.

Only the glass had been broken and
no one had gained admittance.

Yet St. George remained highly agi-

the closed front door. St. George kicked
them aside and looked through the win¬
dow.

He saw a dim form vanishing into the
night.

Suddenly his knees trembled. That bit
of ego which had been growing within,
collapsed like a punctured tire. He
dropped the furnace tool and its clatter
made him jump. Back in his living room,
he made a quick examination of his pre¬
cious books. They were all intact. It
seemed as though the intruder had at-

“3 Will 3Jl you tL S'cret-tL

Cult Jh Pou,er 3ro,n~”

THOSE WERE the last words Rico Challoner ever
spoke. As he uttered them, he gasped as if for air, pawed
at his chest, and dropped slowly. Will Gardenstang
turned him over. There was no mark anywhere. But
Rico was dead!

AND THEN—Will Gardenstang was plunged into the
most amazing adventures of his life, adventures in devil-
worship and the unknown realms of psychic experience
that lie beyond the borders of reality!

FOLLOW WILL GARDENSTANG on this most
amazing of all journeys in STRANGERS ON THE
HEIGHTS, Manly Wade Wellman’s masterpiece of
fantasy! A full book-length novel.

COMING IN THE NEXT ISSUE

tated. He hurried over to the secret
door, opened it and stepped into the room
where he kept that machine which looked
so much like an X-ray apparatus. No¬
body was there.

He closed the door again and then stiff¬
ened in alarm. Upstairs, the cats began
to snarl and screech like maniacs. He
heard heavy footsteps, a muttered curse
and a chair overturned. Then the front
door slammed shut.

St. George seized a furnace-cleaning
tool and, armed with this, rushed up¬
stairs. The four cats were spitting at

tempted to reach the book on St. George’s
desk, but the attack of the four cats had
driven him off.

The cat, who had once been Logan,
bank robber, sidled up to St. George and
rubbed against his legs as if he wanted
to be petted as a reward. St. George’s
temper—which he never knew he owned
—boiled over. He raised the heavy fur¬
nace tool and struck the cat across the
back of its neck.

With a yowl the cat staggered a few
steps and then dropped. St. George
kicked the carcass into a corner, waved

STARTLING STORIES

the furnace tool at the other cats and
then sat down to steady himself.

He recalled a bottle of whiskey which
a doctor had given him during the influ¬
enza epidemic of the first World war.
He dug it out of a closet. He remem¬
bered the cost of this pint and shuddered.
That was the main reason why he’d never
even removed the cork. He did so now
and took a healthy swallow that made
him blink.

The fiery liquor warmed his blood, took
the sting out of his nerves. He sat there,
holding the bottle and looking at the
dead cat over against the wall. He smiled
thinly.

“That,” he said aloud, “was for shoot¬
ing a hole through my derby. I owed
you everything you received, Logan.
Anyway, I’m sick of you cats fawning
and purring.”

He took another swig, corked the
bottle and put it in a drawer. His feet
seemed lighter, his brain clear as crys¬
tal. For the first time in his life, Rodney
St. George made certain his tie was cor¬
rectly knotted. If there was time, he
meant to see Pamela before the night was
over, but first a little business with a
tycoon named Lloyd Chandler. Some¬
how St. George thought he’d enjoy this
visit.

He saw nothing of the three remaining
cats when he left the house. Walking
down the street, he met other neighbors
who saluted him and St. George answered
cheerily. This was good—excellent.
They were noticing him now. He won¬
dered what they’d say or how they’d act
when they discovered what he really
could do, St. George smiled smugly and
swung aboard his bus.

At the next corner a passenger got up.
Women climbed aboard. Ordinarily, St.
George would have backed away from
the empty seat and clung to the straps
rather than impose upon anyone. This
time he plopped himself down and glared
at the two women disappointed in reach¬
ing the seat before he got it.

He changed buses and finally reached
his destination. It was a huge house with
an imposing estate around it. A concrete
driveway artistically coiled itself around

one side of the house. Most of the lights
were lit.

St. George ran a finger around his wing
collar. The place got him, flattened that
ego of his and made him the old meek,
little bank teller he’d been. He took out
his wallet, extracted a name card and
armed with this, he approached the door.

T HE name card had been printed only
this same afternoon, as soon as he’d
been made assistant cashier. St. George
was proud of those cards and this was the
first time he had used one.

A man of about fifty, portly, bald and
impatient opened the door.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said.
“The servants don’t seem to be around—
as usual. What do you want?”

St. George felt an urge to take to his
heels. Only the whiskey still vibrating
through his system saved the day. He
thrust his card forward with a stiff ges¬
ture.

Lloyd Chandler took it. “Assistant
Cashier at one of my banks, eh? Well,
I still don’t know what you want, but a
bank cashier can’t be left standing out on
a man’s front porch. Your mission must
be important.”

“Yes, sir,” St. George said. “I—I have
some very confidential information. We
should have strict privacy, if you don’t
mind.”

“Of course not. Come upstairs to the
library.”

St. George sat down a moment later,
derby hat held between his legs.

“I have come,” he said, “on personal
business. To make a deal. You own a
certain book—”

“I own thousands of books.” Chandler
waved his hand at the huge cases jammed
with volumes. “Never read ’em. Just
buy ’em to show off. I’m too busy for
reading.”

“But this is a very special book,” St.
George insisted.

“Special? What’s special about any
book? Maybe you mean this one?”
Chandler slammed his hand down on a
volume that looked as though it might
turn to dust under the weight of a tooth¬
pick.

THE GREAT EGO

“Paid twenty-four thousand dollars for
it. Don’t ask me why, except that a
friend of mine paid fifteen thousand for
some other piece of junk, so I wanted to
show him up.”

“That,” St. George gulped, “is the very
book—I—want.”

Chandler gave him a peculiar glance.
“An assistant bank cashier who wants to
spend twenty-four thousand on a book.
Are you serious, Mr.—er—St. George?”

Chandler laid the name card down and
then tucked it beneath the leather bind¬
ing of the desk blotter.

St. George answered rather quickly
this time. He was getting sore. “I can
pay for it and give you a slight profit.
The volume is of no use to you. It is to
me. I’m a collector.”

Chandler’s grin died away. “Oh, I see.
This book is very valuable then. The
title is dim. It says—‘Laws of Osiris.’
What’s that mean?”

St. George remained quietly seated.
There was nothing in his outward ap¬
pearance to indicate what seethed within
him.

“Osiris was a god—a myth, some
people claim. I know better. Originally,
this volume was written as a scroll by
Thoth, the god of wisdom. Somehow, it
passed into mortal hands and was repro¬
duced. The volume you hold was never
printed, Mr. Chandler. It’s handwritten,
by holy men of ages past.”

“Is that so?” Chandler raised his eye¬
brows . “What do you want with it?”

“By studying that book,” St. George
said patiently, “I may find a clue to an¬
other scroll. Perhaps the most ancient
one in history. I want it. Now will you
name a reasonable price?”

“I really don’t know,” Chandler
frowned. “Perhaps this volume belongs
in a museum so that everyone can see it
or even study it. I’m afraid, Mr. St.
George, that I need the advice of other
people before I should be willing to dis¬
pose of it to anyone.”

“That is your final decision, Mr. Chan¬
dler?” St. George’s voice was icy.

“I’m afraid so,” Chandler replied. “I
hope you see things my way.”

“Does your wife like cats?” St. George

asked almost pleasantly. “Mangy, flea-
bitten cats, Mr. Chandler?”

“She hates animals,” Chandler replied.
“Why? What’s it got to do with—”

S T. GEORGE raised his hand and
made that mysterious sign. Chan¬
dler stiffened. At his feet appeared an
old cat, fur half-torn off, one ear flopping
badly and a tail minus fur. It was prob¬
ably the ugliest cat St. George had ever
seen. It let out a yowl. St. George
kicked at it. The cat scampered beneath
the desk and kept up its yowling.

St. George seized the volume he cov¬
eted, found a piece of paper and care¬
fully wrapped it. Then he paused to re¬
gard the lifeless, erect figure of Lloyd
Chandler. He rubbed his chin in thought,
walked over to a window and peered out.
The concrete driveway was just beneath.

St. George’s lips parted in a nasty little
smile. He got behind Chandler, held him
under the armpits and by degrees,
pushed him over toward the window. He
raised the sash all the way.

The mangy cat was out from under the
desk, regarding all this with constant
yowls.

“I wish I had time to talk to you,” St.
George said softly. “It would be very
nice to tell you the fate in store. So,
Mrs. Chandler hates cats. Wait until she
sees the specimen you are.”

St. George slid the stiff corpse back a
little, tipped it and then raised the feet
off the floor. He thrust it out of the
window so it balanced. Then he very
carefully allowed the head to point
straight at the concrete driveway. He
gave a little push. The form slid out.
There was a crunch as the skull hit the
pavement and the form went limp.

As that happened, the mangy cat gave
vent to a screech of terror and began
running around the room madly. St.
George avoided it, reached the door and
hurried downstairs.

Someone was asking what had hap¬
pened in a very shrill voice. That would
be Mrs. Chandler. St. George allowed
himself a smug smile. This was the first
time he’d ever enjoyed the fruits of his
long years working over ancient books

STARTLING STORIES

and perfecting an apparatus which one
of the greatest scientists the world had
ever known, only began.

Before the body of Chandler was dis¬
covered, St. George was a long way from
the house and highly delighted with him¬
self. In the first place, not a soul had
seen, him enter. No one knew he had
been there, he had not been expected. In
fact, the household of Lloyd Chandler
didn’t know he existed.

But Rodney St. George had forgotten
one little item. His name card was still
thrust under the leather binding of
Chandler’s blotter.

CHAPTER XII
Mental Examination

J UST about the time that Chandler
was turned into an alley cat, Dr.
Jamison was pacing the floor of his pri¬
vate offices at the sanitarium. His eyes
glittered, his hands clenched and un¬
clenched. Finally, he picked up the tele¬
phone on his desk.

“Send the patient, James Downing, to
my office at once. I wish to examine him
further,” he ordered.

Downing walked in, escorted by two
husky guards. Jamison offered him a
cigarette, lit it and then spoke to the
guards.

“There is no need to remain. Mr.
Downing will feel much more at ease
without you around. There is nothing
to worry about. I know my patients.”

“Thanks,” Downing said after the
guards withdrew. “I’m glad somebody
doesn’t expect me to rip the place apart
every time I raised my hand.”

Jamison smiled and sat down behind
his desk.

“Downing, the hallucination you suf¬
fered interests me tremendously. It’s
something new. I’ve never come across
it before. Do you mind talking about
the experience?”

“Not at all,” Downing replied. “The
fact is, Doctor, I don’t want to leave this
institution, so let’s make it quite clear

now that I’m crazy. I’m as nuts as Adolph
over there in Berlin when he thinks he
can take over the world.”

“Well,” Jamison laughed. “Your de¬
scription of insanity should be written
up in medical books. Why do you wish
to remain?”

“Frankly,” Downing said, “because
I’m afraid. Now laugh. Go ahead. Or
else cluck your tongue in sympathy. It
makes no difference. I’m happy.”

Jamison leaned forward. “If I prom¬
ise not to make any derisive or sympa¬
thetic remarks, will you just relate the
whole thing to me? From a psychiatrist’s
point of view, your case is astounding.
It’s in a classification all by itself.”

“Sure it does,” Downing replied, “be¬
cause it happens to be the truth coming
from the lips and the brain of a sane
man. This Rodney St. George is not a
normal being, Doctor. Anything but
that. I think I have him pegged when
I say he has been a very retiring man
for many, many years. He worked hard
and faithfully to get money enough to
carry on his experiments. Now that he
has attained success, I don’t know what
will happen. That is, if I don’t get him
in time.”

“What do you mean by that remark,
Mr. Downing?”

“To put it quite simply, I propose to
kill him. That’s another reason why I
want to keep on being adjudged nuts. A
crackpot can’t be punished for murder,
especially one who is confined to an in¬
stitution at the time of the murder.”

“Oh,” Dr. Jamison said. “I see. But
the story. What makes you think this St.
George does possess such powers?
Where did he derive them?”

“The first question is easily answered.”
Downing inhaled a long pull at the cig¬
arette. “He turned me into a kitten,
turned himself into a big black cat and
he spoke to me and four other persons
he’d also changed into cats. Don’t ask
me how we spoke. Cat language, I sup¬
pose, but it made sense. We understood
one another.”

“And the second part of my question
—about where St. George got his pow¬
ers?”

THE GREAT EGO

“I haven’t the vaguest idea except that
he owns a collection of very odd books.
Volumes on ancient gods and their al¬
leged tricks. On magic and the black
arts. Maybe he’s a cousin of the Devil,
I don’t know.”

“But you do know that he can change
men into cats. Is that true?”

“It is. Now, Doctor, I know this will
go no further. A so-called madman’s
dreams are of no particular interest and
certainly aren’t investigated, so I’ll also
say this. St. George, at the present time,
doesn’t seem to realize the power he
possesses.”

“Go on,” Jamison said. “This is quite
absorbing.”

D OWNING glanced at the other and
frowned.

“I may have to take that statement
back,” he said. “Perhaps he does know,
but refuses to use these powers very
much for fear of exposing himself. He’s
after something else. Something even
greater than the changing of men into
animals or insects. Maybe birds or fish.”

“Can he alter a human into any other
form other that of a cat?”

“He turned me from a kitten into a
mouse and sent those four cats after
me. Man alive, that was a nightmare!”

“Hmm, so I imagine.” Dr. Jamison
pressed his fingertips together. “Now
haven’t you the vaguest idea as to what
St. George is striving for beyond those
powers he already posseses?”

“No. All I can say is that the four
cats who were once men, want to protect
St. George because he can do something
for them. I think they’d fight anything
to protect him. I—Doctor—your wrist!
It’s scratched badly. Scratched as if a
cat’s claws did it.”

Jamison hastily pulled down his
sleeves.

He smiled somewhat nervously.

“A cat did that all right, Downing.
This one wasn’t converted into a feline.
Just a woman who was brought in here
this afternoon. She was raving mad and
became quite violent. Had long finger¬
nails and I received a sample of them.”
“Oh,” Downing grunted. “I wondered

if you knew more about this business
than you pretended. But then, how could
you? I guess staying here is driving me
a little wacky.”

Dr Jamison offered another cigarette.
“I’m deeply grateful for your patience,
Mr. Downing. Believe me, I shall study
your case. If anything can be done for
you, rest assured it will be.”

“Then you don’t believe me?” Down¬
ing asked as he peered above the flame
which Jamison held for his cigarette.

“Do you expect me to?” the doctor
asked with a smile.

“No, I guess not,” Downing said wear¬
ily. “I wouldn’t believe anybody else
who told a wild story like that. I hope
though, that whatever treatment you
have in mind, won't be—”

A telephone jangled in the next office.
Jamison excused himself, got up and
walked toward the door. Downing’s eyes
narrowed a bit. He saw fur on Jamison’s
trouser legs. Orange-colored hair, gray,
black and white hair. Cat fur! Those
scratches hadn’t come from any maniac!

Downing settled deeper in his chair
and wondered what was going to happen
next. Was Jamison associated with St.
George, perhaps? Or had he believed
the fantastic story and gone to investi¬
gate? Downing spotted a key ring on
the doctor’s desk. He got up quietly,
made sure Jamison was still talking on
that phone and then hastily removed one
key from the ring. It was the key to his
room. A peculiarly shaped key which
he recognized instantly.

He tucked this into his pocket and
was relaxed when Jamison returned. The
doctor didn’t sit down.

“I’ve some urgent business,” he ex¬
plained. “Sorry to cut our interview off
like this, but tomorrow, perhaps, we’ll
have another chat. Meanwhile, Downing,
I wouldn’t talk about cats to anyone
else. Try to clear your mind of them.
It will help.”

“Thanks,” Downing said. “I’ll do my
best.”

T HE two guards returned after Jami-
ison pressed a button. Downing
walked out between them, still smoking

STARTLING STORIES

his cigarette.

“Say, boys,” he looked at the guards,
“you fellows have a pretty tough time
here. I heard that woman brought in
this afternoon. She put up quite a bat¬
tle, didn’t she?”

“What woman?” one guard asked.
“There were no admittances today. Not
one. What are you talking about, Mis¬
ter? Oh—I get it. Yeah, we have pa¬
tients who get violent alh the time.
That’s because they don’t obey the doc,
see? You just take your medicine and
rest easy. You’ll be out of here before
you know it. Here’s the room, friend.
Have a good night’s sleep.”

They closed the door on him and he
heard the lock turn. He also heard that
same guard express an opinion to his
mate.

“Boy, sometimes these bugs get me
going. Imagine that guy? First, he gets
changed into a cat, and then he hears
violent cases being brought in. Humor
’em, that’s what I say.”

Downing sat down on his bed and be¬
gan to toss that key into the air. The key
to freedom. But Downing was much
less concerned with the idea of freedom
than he was about Dr. Jamison.

From the first, Jamison had displayed
too much interest in the story about
cats. It was almost as though he ex¬
pected a tale of this kind to crop out
some day, somewhere. He had made no
great attempt to treat Downing. Perhaps
he didn’t think the patient was insane.

Downing possessed a rapidly growing
idea that Dr. Jamison was on he verge of
causing some trouble.

CHAPTER XIII
None to Oppose Him

R odney st. george started

walking toward the street where
he could get a crosstown bus and thence
transfer to another bus which would
take him home. He saw a taxi stand and
hesitated. The only time he’d ever used
a taxi was a dozen years before when

he’d sprained an ankle and had worked
anyhow.

He got into the cab, bruskly gave his
address and leaned back to enjoy the
ride.

“Why shouldn’t I ride these all the
time?” he asked himself. “What’s money
to me? I can get all I need. Why
shouldn’t I enjoy the better things in
life after those years of struggling to
learn the secrets I now possess?”

His thoughts were following the same
vein when he reached home, paid the
taxi driver and added a five-cent tip. He
wondered why the driver made a derisive
noise with his lips, but St. George
minced eagerly into his home with the
precious book held tightly under one
arm.

When he unlocked the door, there
were no cats to greet him, fawn over him.
He saw their green eyes reflecting light
from beneath various tables and chairs.
They were afraid of him. St. George
smiled grimly. He was glad they feared
him.

Much as he wished to study this vol¬
ume, there was a detail which needed
attention. The cellar window was still
broken. He changed to older clothes,
hurried to the cellar and felt elated that
he’d carefully put away a sizeable piece
of glass some fifteen years ago. He found
this, cut a pane of the required size and
puttied it into the frame. He screwed
back the steel bars and felt a little better.

He took a quick look in that hidden
room and hesitated a moment. It was
about time for another of those treat¬
ments beneath the machine, but he felt
tired and decided to let it go until morn¬
ing.

Upstairs again, he closed the door of
his living room, adjusted a lamp and
settled behind the desk to study that
book. It was written in Latin, but St.
George had long ago mastered the
language. He read and weighed each
word. As the pages slowly turned, he
became more and more excited. Here
was the clue which might lead him to
the final scroll which held the greatest
secret of all. He made copious notes,
memorized them and then destroyed the

THE GREAT EGO

bits of paper.

There was something else, too, in that
volume, which interested him. A clock
struck twice. He’d forgotten all about
sleep and he felt tired. The rest could
wait until tomorrow. He had plenty of
time. St. George put the book away
and went to his bedroom. Not once did
the cats put in an appearance. He cared
little about that and when he recalled
that they hadn’t been fed all day, he
chuckled. Good enough for them.

He started removing his clothes and
suddenly St. George froze. His eyes
grew round in fear. That blasted name
card he’d given to Chandler. It was still
in the rich man’s house. They’d find it
and come to him for information. What
could he tell them? Something about
business for the bank? No! Who
would verify it? He climbed into bed
and tossed for an hour before he fell into
a tortured sleep.

The next morning he went to the bank
via his usual route and method, but he
stopped to buy a morning paper. At
precisely nine, the bank doors swung
open and he went through, greeting the
guards with a curt nod.

In his office he settled down to read
the item about Chandler’s death. Most
of it concerned the man’s history and
associations.

Lloyd Chandler, millionaire financier, was
either murdered or accidentally fell out of
the second story window of his home. The
police are inclined to the murder theory de¬
spite the fact there were no signs of a strug¬
gle and no one in the house heard an intruder.
A very valuable book, a relic worth thou¬
sands of dollars, was missing. Nothing else
had been taken, police learned after a careful
check.

Oddly enough, a stray cat was found in the
room from which Chandler fell to his death.
No one could account for the presence of the
animal and it was turned over to the S.P.C.A.
for disposal. Police wonder if the cat could
have accompanied a murderer into the house.
Further investigations are in progress and the
police promise quick results.

S T. GEORGE folded the newspaper
and laid it on his desk. He mopped
beads of sweat from his forehead. That
statement about the police promising
quick results worried him. There was

no mention of Rodney St. George’s name
card being found and that gave him the
jitters. Obviously, the police wouldn’t
publicize their only clue.

The worry that crammed his system
was registered in his apple cheeks and
his mild little eyes. He arose and paced
the floor, something he’d never done be¬
fore. There was a slight sound behind
him and he jumped nervously.

Dick Zarat, the office boy, stood there
with a sheaf of papers in his hand.

“Oh,” St. George snapped. “It’s you.
Well?”

Dick laid the papers on the desk.
“Mr. Arnold wants you to check and
okay these. Say—you look like you’ve
just heard a lot of bad news. Maybe you
knew Chandler, huh? I see you were
reading all about his death.”

St. George minced over behind his
desk and sat down primly.

“You have worked here for three
years, Zarat. For three years I have
stood for your arrogance and ridicule.
I no longer have to do that. You’re fired.
Get out!”

Dick stepped back a few paces and
gaped.

“But—but I didn’t mean anything, Mr.
St. George—sir. Honest I didn’t. You
can’t fire me for just—”

“I can do anything I wish,” St. George
shouted. “You are discharged. Get out
of my office.”

With a sound like a sob in his throat,
the boy fled from the room. St. George
curled his lip, tapped the flat of the desk
for a moment and then hurled the news¬
paper into the wastebasket.

“I can do anything I want,” he repeat¬
ed the phrase he’d thundered at the boy.
It sounded very good because he could
do anything he wished. Who was there
to stop him? All he had to do was
make the sign and—no more opposition.
He was somebody, after all those years.
He was even bigger than this job as as¬
sistant cashier.

Then St. George forced such ideas out
of his mind. It wasn’t yet time to exert
those powers of his. When he had them
all, then he’d let certain people know
about it. Gradually, he began thinking

STARTLING STORIES

of Pamela Brooke and he was smiling
gently when Arnold, the president of
the bank, walked in.

Arnold sat down. “Good morning,
Rodney. I’m calling you Rodney be¬
cause executives use first names, you
know. What’s this about Dick?”

“He was insolent,” St. George said.
“I fired him.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Dick came to see
me. Now, Rodney, why not give the boy
another chance? He’s done good work
here and he is just a boy. Takes time
to develop respect. We might lose a
good man by letting him go. Suppose
he apologizes and you call the whole
thing off, eh?”

For a bare instant St. George won¬
dered how Arnold would like being a
cat. A skinny, mauled alley cat of non¬
descript color. But he thought better.

“Very well,” he agreed. “If you wish
it, I am willing to take him back.”

“Fine, fine,” Arnold arose. “I’ll send
him in. You’ve the makings of a real
executive, Rodney. A real executive.”

Dick Zarat came in shortly afterward
to make a meek apology, and St. George
waved his hand magnanimously.

“Quite all right, Dick. All of us lose
our heads now and then. We’ll forget
all about it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dick said. “I have
a letter for you. It came to the bank so
I opened it. A bill for some name cards.
Here it is. You want me to have a check
sent out, sir?”

St. George’s jaws came together with
a snap. “Yes, pay it. That’s all.”

T HOSE cursed name cards again. St.

George clenched his fists. There’d
been a peculiar look in the boy’s eyes.
Did he know something? Had the po¬
lice been to the bank and was Dick sus¬
picious? It was odd how St. George
feared the police, but it was an inbred
terror deriving from those years when
he’d feared everyone.

The police couldn’t hurt him. This
he knew, but the time wasn’t ripe yet.
He had to get that last scroll and learn
the final secret. He had to complete his
study of the book he’d taken from

Chandler, squeeze from it still another
ancient secret which was bound to prove
very useful. And this office boy prob¬
ably knew and laughed behind his back.
Gloated because he knew the police
would soon act on this information about
the name cards.

Something had to be done about that
boy. And St. George realized he needed
big money. Once on the trail of the
scroll, he might be forced to purchase it
rather than steal it. Taking that book
from Chandler had developed almost fa¬
tal results. St. George shivered and
tried to work.

Just before noon, St. George walked
out of the bank. He could take a longer
lunch hour now. Not that he needed it.
He still possessed his frugal nature and
the spaghetti palace had good, cheap
food. He started walking rapidly down
the street, hard heels clicking with each
step.

The streets were crowded and he
bobbed in and out of the throng like a
sparrow hunting for food. The derby,
with a clumsily repaired bullet hole
through the crown, rested precariously
on his head, but stayed there by some
miracle.

His steps were in tempo with his
thoughts. He wondered if he should
buy a pair of high-heeled shoes to give
him added height. Being small had al¬
ways bothered him. He cherished the
idea for a couple of blocks and then put
it firmly out of his mind. If he got any
money, he’d need every cent. That scroll
meant everything to him.

Halfway to the restaurant, he remem¬
bered that detectives might be watching
him. He looked nervously over one
shoulder and gave a startled gasp. Dick
Zarat, the office boy, was about two
blocks away and coming up fast. He
had a briefcase tightly held beneath one
arm.

St. George knew what was in the brief¬
case. Fifteen thousand dollars in pay¬
roll cash destined for a firm further
down the side street which St. George
was now crossing. He wheeled and pro¬
ceeded along that street. It was a nar¬
row thoroughfare and many of the build-

THE GREAT EGO

ings were old rundown places which had
been unoccupied for years.

St. George stepped into a doorway,
tried the door and found it open. He
entered a dismal corridor, listened and
heard no signs of life. He saw a stair¬
way, the bannister of which had almost
fallen away. Some of the supporting
pieces of wood sagged dejectedly. St.
George yanked one loose and hefted it.

T HE fifteen thousand dollars in that
briefcase would fit nicely in his
plans. He had to have it and at the same
time take some measure of revenge
against the office boy. Things were
working out. Best of all, nobody at the
bank would suspect that St. George
knew Dick Zarat carried this money.

St. George returned to the dark cor¬
ner just inside the door, raised his hand
and made the sign. His body stiffened,
still holding that length of wood. At
his feet appeared a tiy brown-and-white
puppy. It darted through the partially
opened door and stood there waiting un¬
til Dick Zarat came along.

Then the puppy raised one paw as if
it was injured and began to whine pit¬
eously. St. George’s brain, lodged in
that puppy, knew very well that no
American boy could pass up an injured
puppy.

Dick Zarat slowed up even though he
had orders not to stop for anything.
The bank used him to carry this cash
because it was figured that bandits
would never suspect a boy of carrying a
payroll.

This time Dick Zarat forgot all about
his instructions. He made friendly signs
to the puppy, entered the doorway and
tried to pick it up. The puppy, still
squealing, retreated. Dick Zarat made
another attempt to seize it and see what
was the matter with its leg. The puppy
darted through the door.

Dick Zarat hesitated until the squeals
of the puppy came more piteously than
ever from the hall. Dick pushed the
door open and stepped inside. At that
instant the puppy raised one paw, made
the sign and vanished. The erect form
of St. George moved fast. Dick Zarat

saw none of this. He was bent over try¬
ing to spot the puppy in the gloom.

The club landed on the back of his
neck. He fell heavily and lay still. St.
George hastily jerked the briefcase
from under the fallen boy, extracted the
money and tucked it into his inner
pocket. He dropped the briefcase
quickly, examined Dick for a second and
saw that he was just knocked out. Then
St. George hurriedly made an exit,
reached the cross artery and walked rap¬
idly in the direction of the restaurant.

He felt considerably elated—just like
the moment when he had converted
Lloyd Chandler. It seemed pleasant to
use his powers for personal profit. Dick
Zarat wasn’t badly hurt, but when he
tried to explain what had happened the
chances were he’d be fired. St. George
smiled smugly. He’d gain his own ends
from now on. None could oppose him.

CHAPTER XIV
Alibi

K OCCO, owner of the Spaghetti
Palace, saw St. George heading
toward his door with the fastest steps
he’d ever seen the little guy use. Rocco
clapped his hands and Luigi hastened
up.

“He comes,” Rocco said. “There was
something about no tip last time. You
wish to wait on him again, eh, Luigi?”

“Yes. He may tip double today. Per¬
haps I get ten cents. I wish to see.
Rocco—please—let me dump the ‘spa-
ghet’ down his neck. Just once, eh?”

“Later, maybe,” Rocco promised. “I
am getting sick of him, anyway. Twen¬
ty years is too long to see a face like
that every day. Later maybe. Maybe
I do it myself.”

St. George greeted Rocco with a nerv¬
ous nod, wended his way between tables
and heard his name called. He stopped
short and broke into a cold sweat.

“Mr. St. George,” the voice said. “I’m
so happy to see you again.”

He saw Pamela sitting at the table

STARTLING STORIES

which he usually occupied. St. George
doffed his hat, forgot all about Dick
Zarat and everything else. He basked
in her warm smile.

“May I sit down?” he asked.

“Please do. That is, if the new assist¬
ant cashier will dine with a sales girl
who works in a seedy old book store.”

“Delighted. Absolutely delighted.”
St. George sat down. “We shall start
with wine, eh? Luigi, wine. The best
this time. The very best.”

Luigi clapped a hand to his forehead.
“Madre mia, I go crazy. The best. Ah
si, si. The best it shall be.”

Lugi served the meal with more de¬
corum than he’d ever shown St. George
before. He withdrew, but kept his eye
on the table, ready to jump if anything
was needed.

St. George, reaching for his glass of
water, brushed hands with Pamela and
then, summoning all his nerve, he took
her hand firmly. It was smooth and
warm. He liked the sensation.

“Please,” she withdrew the hand. “Not
quite so openly, Rodney.”

“I’m sorry,” St. George mumbled.

She leaned across the table. “Why?
I like it. Rodney, I see we’re going to
be great friends. I haven’t Jim any
more and now that I never see him, I
realize he just wasn’t the man for me.”

“You were in love with him,” St.
George said suspiciously.

She smiled. “Love is such an abstract
thing, Rodney. Take Jim away and I
forget. Then you come along.”

St. George beamed and swallowed
half a glass of potent wine. Like the
whiskey, it warmed him, gave him a
superior feeling.

“Then perhaps I can see you again?
Dinner, maybe. If—if you don’t mind
going out with a-a little fellow like me.”

“Nonsense,” Pamela said. “It’s not
how high a man stands from the floor
that’s important. It’s what’s in here.”
She tapped her forehead significantly.

“Of course I’ll see you,” she went on.
“Not dinner though. I can’t make it.
Perhaps later—say nine o’clock? I could
come to your house. I can’t ask you to
call on me. I live in a boarding house.

You understand?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” St. George said
eagerly. “Please do come. I-I have
some books I want to show you. Per¬
haps we can talk about another book—
rather, a scroll I need very badly. You
might be able to help me find it.”

“I’m sure I could,” Pamela said, rising.
“But I’ll be late. See how gracious
company makes me forget the time,
Rodney?”

S T. GEORGE left a carefully folded
dollar bill on the table. As he
walked out, Luigi picked it up and prac¬
tically raced to the desk where Rocco
lorded over the cash register.

“I am astonish!” Luigi gasped. “If
Mussolini returned to Rome and grew
hair on that bald dome of his, I would
not be so astonish. A dollar he gave me,
For lunch. A dollar! The world has
change. Rocco, you do me a favor, si?
You tell nobody about this. I wait on
him every day. The others hate him,
but a dollar tip is different.”

St. George walked on air back to the
bank. Dark clouds loomed suddenly
though. He saw a police car parked
down the street in front of the doorway
where Dick Zarat had fallen. St.
George shivered and walked faster.

The bank was filled with policemen.
A guard stopped St. George and whis¬
pered to him.

“Boy—er—Mr. St. George, things are
popping. Poor Dick Zarat was knocked
out and fifteen grand swiped from his
briefcase. The cops are questioning
everybody. They figure it was an inside
job because nobody knew Dick carried
all that dough.”

“Oh, my goodness,” St. George
gasped. “That’s awful. Simply ter¬
rible. I must see if there is anything I
can do.”

He walked into his office and found
Arnold waiting for him. Arnold looked
very grave.

“Sit down, Rodney,” he said. “You
heard what happened, of course. The
police are checking. Did you know that
Dick carried that cash?”

“I? Good heavens, no!”

THE GREAT EGO

“That’s fine,” Arnold said. “You
would have found out in the normal
course of events, but since you have
been the assistant cashier only a day, it
was improbable for such information to
reach you. Dick was attacked not far
from the restaurant where you eat. Rod¬
ney, just for the record, what time did
you arrive at the restaurant? You left
here at ten minutes of twelve.”

St. George wondered if he showed the
agitation seething within him. He’d
taken almost twenty minutes to cover
that five-minute walk. He couldn’t ex¬
plain the discrepancy. The police might
start wondering about Chandler’s death,
too. They might tie him up with it.

He had to take a chance. Perhaps
Pamela didn’t know what time he had
appeared. She was his only alibi, a very
brittle one. He drew a long breath.

“I reached the restaurant where I usu¬
ally eat at a few minutes before twelve,
Mr. Arnold. I had lunch with a young
lady. Mr. Downing’s former fiancee. I
think she can testify to the time. She
works at Mazur and Company, book
dealers. She’s probably there now if
you wish to reach her.”

Arnold picked up the phone.

“Mind you, Rodney, I certainly don’t
suspect anything, but I’d rather estab¬
lish your alibi than have the police do it.
They can be very crude at times.”

St. George didn’t breathe at all for
two minutes. Arnold got Pamela on the
phone, talked and listened a few mo¬
ments and then hung up.

“Well,” he said, “that’s that. Miss
Brooks is willing to swear that you ar¬
rived just before twelve. She was wait¬
ing for you and kept looking at her
watch. Rodney, why is your hand
raised like that?

St. George dropped his hand. “I—I
was nervous, sir. Didn’t know what I
was doing. Thank you for corroborating
my alibi. I know the police will demand
one of every employee.”

After Arnold left, St. George wilted
against the leather cushions of his chair.
He remembered that he’d forgotten to
remove his hat. He flung it toward the
hatrack.

W HY had Pamela lied? Perhaps
her watch was wrong and she be¬
lieved she was telling the truth. She said
she had been waiting for him. St. George
smiled a little. That was nice to know.
And she was coming to his house tonight.
He actually did need her help. Finding
that final scroll would be difficult, but
she could handle it without incurring
any suspicion. Things were working
beautifully.

One thing St. George knew very firm¬
ly. Once he had extracted the secret
from Chandler’s book, discovered the
missing scroll and digested the informa¬
tion it contained, there’d no longer be
any reason for him to sit back and stay
mild and meek. He could assert himself.
The police could suspect all they wished
then.

“Think of it,” St. George whispered to
himself. “I shall never die. Never. I
shall be afraid of no one, but the world
will fear me. Important men will crawl
to me, begging for my secret.”

Nevertheless, the rest of that day was
a nightmare. St. George could scarcely
do his work or concentrate when others
spoke to him. Police were all over the
place. Dick Zarat was practically under
arrest. That disposed of him.

Also, St. George had fifteen thousand
dollars which would help to buy the final
scroll in which the last secret St. George
wished for would be found. If only the
blasted police would stop poking around.

Mixed with his worry was some meas¬
ure of self-confidence, too, and by quit¬
ting time, it was well to the fore. Along
with the inflation of his ego which had
lain dormant all these years came an al¬
most irresistible urge to tell someone
about his powers. He wished that Pam¬
ela were here.

He went home by taxi. After all, with
fifteen thousand easily acquired dollars
in his pocket, he could afford such lux¬
ury. He even parted with a ten-cent tip.

Inside the house, he recalled that he’d
forgotten to buy food for the cats. Curse
them! This was the second day they’d
go hungry, but he didn’t care much.
They stayed away from him, hungry or
not. The corpse of the cat who had been

STARTLING STORIES

Logan, still lay on the floor.

He spent a few minutes burying it in
the back yard. Then he proceeded to
the cellar, went into that hidden room
and lay down on the table. He snapped
a switch, listened contentedly to the hum
of the motors. After ten minutes he shut
off the apparatus and returned to his
living room.

Locking himself in, he sat down to
study Chandler’s book. This was almost
the final lap. In the book he now studied,
he was sure to find clues which would
identify for him that scroll upon which
was written the greatest secret of all
time, the secret of immortality.

That, and nothing else would bring him
to the peak of perfection. Make of him
someone to surpass the deeds of the
greatest men of the ages. His mind had
difficulty concentrating. Too many ma¬
terial things drifted through his brain.

Little guy, was he? Perhaps—but as
Pamela put it, the size of a man’s brain
was what counted. Some day, the big¬
gest of men would come crawling to him,
begging his favor. Men like Chandler
and Arnold, used to giving orders, not
taking them. Just one more step . . .
only one.

He thought of Jim Downing rotting
away in an asylum. Why, Jim Downing
was almost twice as big, but what had his
size and strength availed him? Nothing,
because no one alive could compete with
Rodney St. George and the knowledge he
had assimilated.

Gradually, he began concentrating.
This book was a real find. If Chandler
had possessed the brain to recognize and
comprehend this work, he would have
been willing to pay a hundred times
twenty-four thousand dollars.

“One of the Hermetic books,” St.
George whispered aloud and once again
he wished he had an audience. “Created
by Hermes himself. Myth, was he? I’d
like to see what people will think when
I show them. Hermes, messenger of the
gods. Son of Zeus and Maia! Winged
sandals to transport him anywhere in the
world. But the winged sandals were
just a symbol. Hermes transported him¬
self through powers he learned from the

older gods. Powers which are described
here. The Tau cross. Hermes’ own sym¬
bol. That’s it. The Tau cross!”

He forgot there was a modern world
now as he dug deeper and deeper into
that volume. Great men had studied it
in bygone days and found nothing except
that it referred to some abstruse mythol¬
ogy. They didn’t have the scientific
knowledge of Rodney St. George. They
didn’t have the faith, despite their great
names and reputations.

CHAPTER XV
The Tau Cross

I T WAS still early evening when St.

George finally closed the Osiris book
after having read the last page. Experi¬
mentally, he raised one hand and drew a
straight line in the air. Then he crossed
this with a curved line, as the letter ‘T’
is sometimes written.

This was a second sacred symbol, like
the staff and entertwining serpent with
which he could convert men’s psyche into
cats. St. George loosened his collar and
patted his fat little face with a hand¬
kerchief. If anything went wrong now,
there’d be no telling what would happen,
yet he had to go through with the ex¬
periment. He’d just gained knowledge
and power beyond belief. Associated
with what he already knew—why, he
might even reach a peak to which a mor¬
tal’s imagination couldn’t even touch.

The final test was at hand. “If I am
right,” he said aloud, “I can transport
myself to any point I so desire. Just as
Hermes traveled. We shall see.”

He pushed back his chair and sat very
erect in it. He raised his hand and care¬
fully drew the Tau cross in midair. At
the same moment he mentally concen¬
trated on being in the next room.

The world spun madly, everything be¬
came blurred. He had the sensation of
moving through space at a terrific rate of
speed. Then things cleared. He heard
the mewing of his cats. He was in the
next room!

THE GREAT EGO

Fear or no fear, his astounding ap¬
pearance brought the three cats into the
middle of the floor and they looked up at
him with almost human consternation in
their eyes. St. George paid no attention
to them. He deliberately kicked his shin
against the leg of a table and felt pain.
That meant he was literally and actually
here, in the flesh. There was nothing left
in that other room.

Holding his breath, he went back to the
living room. There was no evidence that
he’d just been there. St. George’s ela¬
tion was something to behold then. He
pranced about the room, pausing to pat
his latest book lovingly. He offered up
mental thanks to the so-called mythical
gods of ancient times.

“The bank,” he said aloud. “Could I
go there? That far?”

He drew the cross, willed that he be
inside the great vault. Once more, he
had that eerie feeling of being whisked
through space, merging with the jumble
of noise and flashes of light he’d already
experienced.

He felt cold suddenly. He was hemmed
in. Then he smiled, for it was the steel
vault that hemmed him in. He’d mate¬
rialized perfectly within the bank vault.
Orienting himself rapidly, he pawed
through currency that ran into the hun¬
dreds of thousands. St. George smiled
and began helping himself.

Then he paused. This wasn’t quite the
thing to do. Not yet. Too many things
had happened at the bank. One more
might make people wonder if Downing
hadn’t been right after all. St. George
deliberately replaced the money.

He glanced at his watch and realized it
was almost time for Pamela to arrive at
his home. Then he broke out in a cold
sweat. He used this power twice. What
if he hadn’t taken enough of those ampli¬
fying rays from the machine in the cel¬
lar? What if his Tau cross wouldn’t
work this time and they found him suf¬
focated and locked in the vault the next
morning?

St. George took a firm grip on his
nerves and made the Tau cross. He chose
to be transported to his living room at
home.

There he was, too. He heaved a long
sigh of relief that turned into a gurgle.
A powerful arm was suddenly curled
around his neck from behind and another
arm held his hands at his sides so he
couldn’t make any signs.

The choking continued until things
blurred. At no time could St. George
see his assailant, nor did he have the
slightest chance to use either hand and
make the sign. The blurred sensation
deepened and then became jet black.

W HEN he awakened, he was seated
in a chair in his secret basement
room, his arms lashed to it. He was as
helpless as if he never possessed any
power at all. To make matters worse he
was inside his own laboratory and the
man who stood grinning down at him
was a comparative stranger. St. George
had seen him only once or twice before.
It was the same man who had trailed him
home.

“Feeling better, St. George?” the man
asked.

“Who are you?” St. George moaned.
“What is the meaning of this?”

The man grinned. “All I’ll say now is
that my name is Jamison. St. George,
you and I have worked on the same prob¬
lem, but you discovered the secret first.
I think I am entitled to share in it.”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking
about,” St. George gasped.

“Don’t be silly. Of course you do.
Now while you were recovering, I took
time to examine this neat instrument of
yours. It’s an X-ray machine except for
one thing. The tubes are different. They
are distinctly unique in design. You are
a clever man, St. George. How does this
operate?”

“I’ll show you if you cut me loose,” St.
George said with astonishing calmness.

Jamison laughed. “Oh, no, you don’t.
If I release even one hand, you’ll make
a sign and I’ll become a cat or a dog or a
frog or something like that. I know you
have to make that sign, St. George. It is
the method of releasing the power stored
up inside yourself. The trigger, if you
prefer, which enables that power to flow
from you into any victim you select.

STARTLING STORIES

Without making the sign, you are quite
impotent.”

St. George realized his secret was all
but out. This man knew almost as much
as he did. There was no use bluffing.
Not now.

“What do you wish with me?” he
asked.

“A partnership. A knowledge of this
strange tube and just how it stores up
your powers. In fact, I want everything,
but we shall work together, eh?”

“I think not,” St. George answered.
“What I have developed is mine alone.
I shall use it as I see fit.”

“Look here,” Jamison said tensely, “to¬
gether we could practically rule the
world. Who could stop us? We’d have
money, anything else we wished. Those
who got in our way could be turned into
animals. We’d be supreme. Can’t you
realize that?”

“I have realized it for quite some
time,” St. George stated coldly. “Yes,
my powers will enable me to be supreme.
But I shall share my knowledge with no
one. That is final.”

Jamison shrugged, reached into his
pocket and drew out a flat kit. He took
a hypodermic needle from it. The sy¬
ringe was loaded. He squirted a small
portion of the contents experimentally.
Then he approached St. George, and the
diminutive bank clerk felt complete ter¬
ror surging through him.

“You will explain the machine,” Jami¬
son said curtly. “Either that or I’ll in¬
ject a fluid into your veins which will
cause you to die in agony. Once injected
there is no antidote. You’d better talk,
St. George. I’m not to be trifled with
when I have something as great as this
almost within my grasp.”

“Wait!” St. George cried. “Wait—I’ll
tell you about the machine. I’ll bargain
with you. Yes, we can work together.”

Jamison laid down the needle and
smiled. “That’s much better. Go ahead.
While you describe it, I’ll check on the
machine itself.”

S T. GEORGE uttered a long sigh of
despair. He had no remedy for get¬
ting free, no way of whittling Jamison

down. All he could do was stall and in
so doing he had to admit some of the
truth. Jamison couldn’t be fooled.

“It began years ago,” St. George said in
resignation. “I accidentally stumbled
upon an ancient volume having to do
with sorcery. I realized the people of
those times believed in it. So did the
sorcerers because they felt they were on
the right track and might really develop
the powers they were supposed to have.
Then I found books about the ancient
gods who actually did have those powers.
They were not myths. I discovered they
performed their miracles by certain
powers stored within themselves.”

“Granted them by Zeus, the chief god
—in reality, something pertaining to en¬
hanced electro-magnetism,” Dr. Jamison
grunted. “I read that book, too, but I
couldn’t find the clue to amplify this
mental sort of electricity. Go on.”

St. George looked at Jamison with a
woebegone expression that belied the
intense activity of his brain.

“I might have suspected as much,” he
said quietly. “The ancient sorcerers
and the witches of more modern times,
used incantations to overpower their
victims. Sometimes these worked. Cer¬
tainly, enough to provide the history
that has developed from their actions.
Legends may be based on hearsay, but
hearsay must have some foundation,
don’t you think?”

“You’re a cool customer,” Jamison ac¬
knowledged. “Yes, I do agree. My
theory is that the sorcerers and witches
incorporated into their brews and phil¬
tres, certain narcotic agents which
caused the minds of thei victims to be¬
come susceptible. Their brains were no
longer able to resist the will power of
the sorcerers. There is logic in that.”

“Indeed,” St. George acknowledged.
“The idea of numbing the victim’s brain
with a drug possibly transmitted from
the fumes of the brewing pots, is very
good. Whatever methods the ancients
used have been lost forever, yet we know
they certainly existed.”

Jamison eyed his prisoner sharply. “I
can’t get over it,” he said. “I figured
you’d become frantic. Yet you sit there

THE GREAT EGO

and talk to me as if I were your stu¬
dent.”

“You are—in a way.” St. George
smiled slightly and kept trying to think
of a way to get free. “I fear you will
never grasp the full significance of my
work, however. You will never discover
what I use in place of the incantations
and the dark brews with their possible
narcotic effects. I have superseded
those people of fairly recent times and
re-discovered the scientific secret of the
ancients.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Dr.
Jamison coldly. “I understand more of
astro- and electro-physics than you
realize. Get on with your explanation
of this machine. How did you come to
stumble on the right wave-lengths?
How did you invent this machine?”

Jamison was scrutinizing the huge
glass tube from which the rays were de¬
veloped.

“I realized I must find a way of con¬
centrating that same power within my¬
self, but it would take modern science
to do it. So I studied all sorts of rays,
from the cosmic to certain X-rays.
These latter alone have the proper abil¬
ity of penetrating the human body and
acting upon it. If I could manufacture
a new tube, incorporating certain phases
of Sir William Crookes’ unfinished
work, I might be able to transmit the
power via those rays, to my own brain.”

“So you finally rigged this tube,” Ja¬
mison said, nodding. “Splendid bit of
work, my friend. Really splendid. You
transmit matter in a fourth state into
your mind with this tube.”

“Yes,” St. George admitted ruefully.
“It is radiant matter. So long as I am
impregnated with the rays I can, by
sheer force of will, convert anyone into
anything. There is no mind, no mate¬
rial substance which can defy me.”

Jamison snapped on the switch. The
huge tube glowed a purple color and
began a steady singing noise. The light
grew brighter and a hissing sound de¬
veloped. Jamison turned off the switch.

“All right,” he said. “You can explain
the mechanical details later. Now about
this knowledge you derived from the an¬

cient books. What of that, St. George?
What of—”

The sudden howling of the cats up¬
stairs gave Jamison a bad taste of an¬
noyance.

“I should have killed them,” he re¬
marked dispassionately. “St. George, I
don’t trust you. Especially in this lab¬
oratory. You may have some tricks up
your sleeve, so I think we shall go some¬
where else.”

Jamison picked up the hypo and ad¬
vanced. St. George yelled in alarm as
the needle pricked his flesh and sank in.
The room began to fade. Vainly, he
tried to raise his hand and make that
sign. The arm was pinioned helplessly
to his chair. Then Rodney St. George
lapsed into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER XVI
Jamison’s Ambition

P AMELA BROOKE neared Rodney
St. George’s house just in time to
see a man step out on the porch and look
around. That wasn’t St. George, al¬
though the figure did look somewhat fa¬
miliar. Pamela drew back into the shad¬
ows and stayed there even after the man
hurried off the porch and ran lightly
up the street.

She heard a car motor start and a mo¬
ment later, a sedan stopped in front of
St. George’s home. The same slender
man climbed out, entered the house and
when he emerged again, he carried a
limp form in his arms.

Pam edged closer until she could
make out the marker plate. It carried
an M.D. before the numbers. Then she
knew. This was Dr. Jamison from the
asylum. Somhow he’d conquered St.
George and was now taking him away.

Pamela watched him stow St. George
onto the floor of the tonneau and then
hurry back to the house. Jamison
kicked out at three excited cats who
blocked the doorway. They retreated
and he slammed the door. A moment
later the car pulled away.

STARTLING STORIES

Pamela didn’t wait longer. She be¬
gan running as fast as she could on high-
heeled shoes. She hailed a taxi upon
reaching a busier section and was driven
straight to the asylum. It required con¬
siderable talking before they admitted
her to Downing’s room.

He recognized the horror in her eyes
and sat up in bed.

“Jim!” Pamela cried. “I was right
about Dr. Jamison. He just took St.
George away in his car. St. George was
unconscious.”

Downing uttered a curse word with
fervor. He swung both feet off the side
of the bed.

“Listen, darling, Jamison is in this
up to his filthy neck. If anything, he is
worse than St. George, because Jamison
is ambitious and has more brains. May¬
be St. George is ambitious enough, but
he is biding his time for the present.
Jamison won’t.”

“I couldn’t trail him, Jim. There was
no chance. What must I do?”

“The chances are that Jamison will
bring St. George right here to this
asylum. Why not? If St. George
yowled, nobody would think anything of
it, and Jamison has a suite on the ground
floor with a rear entrance to which his
car can easily be driven. I wonder how
he got the best of the little runt?”

Pamela glanced at the closed door as
if fearful St. George might be standing
there.

“Jim,” she said slowly, “I’ve been
leading him on, as you suggested. I’ve
a good start on building up his ego. The
man is already crawling out of that shell.
Why, Jim, did you want me to instill
him with ambition when it could be so
dangerous?”

“Pam, dear, we can’t fight St. George
with ordinary weapons. He’s immune.
Therefore, we must make him think he
is supreme, that nothing can break him.
Destroy his fear complex, elevate him
to a position where he would be able to
jeer at someone like me. That’s when
I can strike. When he is so certain
nothing could harm him. But now
Jamison has to enter the picture and
complicate things.”

“What are you going to do?” Pamela
asked.

Downing shrugged. “Ten minutes
ago, I would have given anyone every
penny I own to kill St. George. Now
I’ve got to rescue the little rat. I must,
because if Jamison tortures those secrets
out of him, Jamison will be even harder
to handle.”

“But, Jim, you’re practically a pris¬
oner here.”

“I’ve got a key. Swiped it from Ja¬
mison. Go home, Pam, and stay there.
Come back tomorrow if you can. I’ll do
my best to save St. George unless—”
He broke off grimly.

“Yes, Jim? Unless what?”

“Unless I can figure out some way to
kill both of them without implicating
myself. Call the attendant and run
along, Pam. If St. George gets away,
your job has only begun.”

WgkOWNING waited twenty minutes
before he went into action. Un¬
locking the door, he opened it an inch
and peered out. There was nobody in
the corridor. He closed the door be¬
hind him, locked it again and then
walked on slippered feet toward a stair¬
way. He descended this unmolested.
Few guards were on duty at night. The
patients were too securely locked up to
cause any worry.

Downing knew just where Jamison’s
suite was. He listened outside the door,
heard nothing and tried the knob. The
door opened. He stepped into a small
hallway and now he could hear voices.
Jamison’s and Rodney St. George’s!

Downing crept forward inch by inch.
He picked up a heavy vase as a weapon
and rested more or less securely in the
fact that St. George would not be able
to make that cursed sign. If he could,
Jamison would have been converted into
a mewing cat long ago.

Downing headed toward a lighted
room and the source of Jamison’s voice.
Pressed against the wall, he risked a
quick look inside. St. George was seat¬
ed in a chair and held there by ropes.
Wide leather straps pinned his hands to
the arms of the chair so he couldn’t

THE GREAT EGO

make that ominous sign. St. George sat
quietly, tiny eyes glaring at Dr. Jamison.

The psychiatrist had made himself
comfortable in another chair and was
grinning triumphantly at his prisoner.

“I suppose you wonder who I am,” he
said. “My name is really Jamison. I’m
a doctor—a psychiatrist. I conduct this
asylum. I have Downing here. Down¬
ing told me all about you—and I believed
him. Want to know why, St. George?”

“Naturally, I am interested,” St.
George said. “What-what happened
back there at my home? How did you
get in? How did I get here?”

Jamison lit a cigarette and smiled
contentedly.

“I’ll tell you that much, of course,”
he said. “I merely broke the lock of a
window and entered. You were not in
the house, so I waited. Looked around
too—and discovered your laboratory.
By the way, just how did you appear so
suddenly?”’

“That is my business,” St. George an¬
swered testily. “What next?”

“I knew that Jim Downing had ren¬
dered you harmless by holding your
arms, so I did the same thing. Then,
after our little conversation I injected
a drug into your neck and you went off
to sleep. It was just a soporific. Now
suppose we get on with your explana¬
tions.”

“What if I say no?” St. George
queried cautiously.

Jamison shrugged. “I’m a doctor. I
know how to make a man suffer beyond
anything he has ever dreamed of. I
tried to steal that book of Chandler’s
myself. Did you know that?”

St. George nodded. “Ah, so you
broke the cellar window of my home
to draw me down there. Then you en¬
tered through the door, but my cats
stopped you.”

“Blasted cats,” Jamison snarled.
“They all but ate me alive. All right,
it was I who sneaked in. When I go
back, I’ll kill them all. I’ll get that book,
too.”

St. George laughed sarcastically.
“You could read every book on the
whole subject and it would do you no

good. The real secret lies within my
brain. You shall never have it.”

Jamison edged his chair closer to St.
George and suddenly stuck out the light¬
ed cigarette until it almost touched St.
George’s eye.

“That’s a crude way to make a man
talk,” Jamison laughed. “Wait until I
use a scalpel. Come now, better see this
my way. I’ve studied this, too. That
X-ray tube stores into your mind certain
rays. You have the power of transmit¬
ting these same rays to another person
and with them, your command which
changes these people into another form.
It isn’t hypnotism nor mind suggestion,
but an actual transmission of orders
which are taken up by the body of your
victim and with any result you may so
command. It’s radiant matter. Matter
in a fourth state, St. George.”

“Madness,” St. George muttered.
“Stark madness.”

“No, it isn’t,” Jamison snapped an¬
grily. “You have a device to build up
those thought waves, to build up the
matter in fourth state. You know how
to transmit it. Making those signs is
just a gesture, but necessary to make the
power within you work.”

“Madness,” St. George repeated, but
with less firmness this time.

“Electrical discharge through a rare¬
fied gas produces a dark space, named
after Crookes, but never really under¬
stood. In this so called ‘dark’ space you
are able to store up mental energy. This,
combined with the secrets you learned
from ancient books, enables you to as¬
sume this power. I’m not crazy, St.
George. I mean to have your secret no
matter what I have to do. Govern your
decision accordingly.”

“Let me go free and then we shall dis¬
cuss it,” St. George asked craftily.

J AMISON laughed. “One second
after your hands were free, I’d be¬
come a cat or something worse. I told
you that before.”

“Ah, yes,” St. George breathed.
“Something worse. What, Doctor, is
the worst thing a human form could be
turned into?”

STARTLING STORIES

“Willing to talk about it now, are
you?” Jamison said with heavy satisfac¬
tion. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, a
snake would be about the most vicious
thing you could turn a man into. A
black snake, perhaps. Personally, I hate
serpents.”

“Thank you.” St. George inclined his
head just the slightest. “I shall convert
you into a coiling, hissing black snake
some day. A very old snake so that you
will not live long. Perhaps I shall
choose to trample you to death. There
will be no poison fangs. Doctor. A black
snake is quite harmless.”

“All right.” Jamison showed a trace
of fear now. “I’ll admit you could do
it—if your hands were free. And if that
built up fourth-space matter was strong
enough to affect me. You have to absorb
that matter now and then, St. George.
I mean to find out how you do it. Talk
—talk, or, by heavens, I’ll go to work
with a scalpel!”

Jim Downing took a firmer grip on
the vase. It rankled within him that
he had to rescue a man he hated. A man
as dangerous as anyone who ever came
down the ages, but with this power,
Jamison would be even worse. Jim
Downing sidestepped close to the door.

CHAPTER XVII
The Fourth Space

AIT,” St. George said quickly.

“Let’s talk it over first.”

Downing drew back. He wanted to
hear more, to learn as much of the little
bank teller’s secret as possible so he
might destroy the whole thing and be
sure of his job.

“Start talking,” Jamison snapped.

“In a way,” St. George admitted, “I
do store up energy. Matter in a fourth
state, as you say. I am able to transmit
this matter by thought waves to another
person. Even to an animal. Carried
with these waves are the secrets of an¬
cient gods. Combined with radiant mat¬
ter, I can put their theories into use—

into actuality.”

“Yes, yes,” Jamison agreed breathless¬
ly. “Go on.”

“I am now on the track of something
even bigger,” St. George said. “The
ability to convert an old man into a
young man. There is power beyond any
dreams.”

“You’re right,” Jamison agreed, his
eyes gleaming. “I must know the se¬
cret. Together, we can do anything we
choose.”

“No,” St. George said. “No, Doctor.
You use the wrong pronoun. It should
be I. Meaning, of course, Rodney St.
George.”

Jamison jumped up, opened a drawer
of a desk and took out a gun. He placed
the muzzle of it directly against St.
George’s temple. The little man
blanched and began to shake, but there
was defiance in his eyes. And in his
voice.

“Shoot,” he dared. “Go ahead. Pull
the trigger and the secret you want will
die with me.”

Jamison lowered the gun. With a
savage imprecation, he threw it onto a
chair slightly behind St. George.

“All right,” he said bitterly, “I can’t
just kill you. But I can make you talk
or die the most miserable death in medi¬
cal history.”

“Don’t forget what kind of a life an
aged black snake lives,” St. George re¬
minded.

Jamison shuddered. He opened a kit
of surgical instruments and took out a
very small scalpel. He lightly drew a
line just behind St. George’s ear.

“If I cut into you there, the pain will
almost drive you mad. There are other
places, too. I’m tired of stalling, St.
George. Are you going to get down to
brass tacks?”

Downing, peering around the edge of
the doorway, realized that St. George
was weakening. His ego had been punc¬
tuated badly and he was for the time be¬
ing a meek and very frightened little
bank teller.

Jamison stood with his back to the
door. Downing, the metal vase held
high, padded noiselessly forward. He

THE GREAT EGO

brought down the vase in a blow calcu¬
lated to knock Jamison cold for several
minutes, but not kill him.

Jamison gave a quiet sob, fell forward
and was draped across the chair which
St. George occupied. Downing darted
toward the chair where the gun lay and
scooped it up.

“Downing” St. George cried. “Down¬
ing, untie me.”

"Do you really think I will?” Down¬
ing barked. “See this gun, St. George?
I’m debating whether or not to put a
bullet through your head right now.”

“That’s murder.” St. George yelled
in horror. “You can’t do it, Downing.
Give me a chance. I swear I’ll never for¬
get it. I’ll make them let you out of
here. I’ll—”

“Getting me out of here doesn’t make
much difference now,” Downing inter¬
rupted. “I’ll always have the stigma of
having been locked up in an asylum upon
me. And you’ve stolen Pamela away
from me. I still have friends. I know
what’s going on.”

“Downing,” St. George pleaded, “I’ll
forget about your girl. I’ll do anything.
Just give me a chance.”

“No,” Downing said curtly. “You don’t
deserve it. That knowledge tucked away
in your mind is dangerous. No man has
a right to possess it. Certainly no man
like you.”

S UDDENLY, St. George gave himself
an upward heave. Only the form
of Dr. Jamison weighting him down
probably saved Downing from being
turned into a cat before he knew it. St.
George had to push Jamison’s body out
of the way before he could stand. By
the time he stood erect, Downing was
close behind him, the gun muzzle
pressed tightly against the nape of St.
George’s neck.

“That was a close call,” Downing pant¬
ed. “So the scalpel Jamison dropped fell
where you could reach it and saw your¬
self free. One move to turn and raise
your hand against me, St. George, and
you are a dead man.”

The little bank teller became rigid in
his anxiety to comply. Only his eyes

rolled down to gaze in maiice at the body
of the unconscious psychiatrist at his
feet.

“Downing,” St. George said earnestly,
“let’s sign a truce between you and me.
I hold you no anger or hate. I swear
I won’t raise my hand against you. But
this man Jamison—this asylum doctor
—is a madman. He is terribly danger¬
ous. He wants my secret and power so
he can dominate the whole world. He
already knows enough to discover the
rest in time if he is allowed to live. He
has studied for years as I have.

“We’ve got to destroy him, Downing.
If you are squeamish about killing, just
let me turn him into an impotent little
animal of some kind. Let me turn him
into a snake. You’ve got to believe me,
Downing, or we are both lost.”

Jim Downing thought rapidly. Just
how was he going to handle this incred¬
ible situation? He had overheard enough
to realize that St. George was doubtless
speaking the truth. Instead of one meek
little man who was slowly turning into
a maniac, he now had two deadly antag¬
onists to overcome. And it was no
longer just a matter of personal safety.
The fate of the entire world might well
be hanging in the balance.

Downing had not had a clear idea of
what he intended doing upon crashing
into this party. He had simply acted.
But in the back of his subconscious mind
had lain the knowledge of what he had
to do. Things clarified for him now, like
mists rolling back from a matter which
had heretofore been obscured.

“No,” he grated out. “I am sorry, St.
George, but you and Jamison both must
die. God forgive me—I must be your ex¬
ecutioner!”

The ring of his tones had the finality
of death. St. George realized that—and
did the only thing he dared do. He bent
his wrist slightly upward and with his
stiffened index finger made the sign of a
tiny Tau cross at his side, concentrating
terrifically on his newly acquired power
of teleportation.

His body simply evaporated, winking
out of existence even as Downing
pressed the trigger of his gun again and

STARTLING STORIES

again. The bullets sped through empty
space to thud into the far wall.

Downing stared open-mouthed at the
spot where St. George had stood—just
five inches away from him. He had not
been prepared for this new trick of the
amazing bank teller. St. George had
vanished in thin air.

Completely shaken and baffled. Down¬
ing lowered the smoking gun and looked
blankly around the room. But St.
George simply wasn’t. He was—just
gone.

Dr. Jamison groaned and stirred. Sick
from his reaction, Downing had no
thought for shooting the psychiatrist
now. He thrust the gun into his pajama
belt and bent over the unconscious man.
He came to a quick decision.

Somehow, St. George was beyond his
reach. But Jamison would remain a con¬
stant threat to St. George now, and
there was no doubt that to kill doctor
would only be doing the bank teller a
service. Thus, Jamison must continue to
live. He must become the lure to draw
St. George into a trap from which there
must be no escape. But what? And how?

K E HELPED Jamison into a chair.

The doctor opened his eyes, saw
Downing and groaned.

“You! I might have known. What
happened to St. George?”

“I wish I knew,” Downing said. “I
had him at the point of a gun and was
trying to screw up enough courage to
put a slug through his head when he
just vanished.”

“Apport!” Jamison massaged his
head. “That’s the answer—apport. So
he has discovered that secret, too.”

“And just what is ‘apport’?” Downing
asked.

Jamison gave him a stabbing glance.
“I don’t know that I should tell you
anything. St. George was about to talk
when you whanged me on the head and
let him get away.”

“He wanted to turn you into a black
snake,” Downing said tersely. “I didn’t
let him. That should prove I must be
on your side. Now what is ‘apport’?”

“It is a scientific term for the pass¬

age of a solid body into or out of a closed
cavity—like this room we’re in. Some
spiritualists can do it, but not as clev¬
erly. Scientists say good faith in the
medium helps them put over the trick,
but that in itself isn’t enough. Ordi¬
narily, we’d have to allow for a hypnotic
influence, but with St. George we know
it isn’t hypnotism.”

“This is sheer madness,” Downing
grunted.

“Are you mad then? Didn’t you see
St. George vanish before your eyes?
Right now he is back at home or any¬
where he chose to be, laughing at us.
St. George has discovered the disinteg¬
ration and reconstitution of matter. He
disappeared into a fourth dimension of
space.”

“Like the fourth state of matter you
referred to?” Downing asked rather
incredulously.

Jamison noodded. “So you know
everything, eh? That makes you dan¬
gerous, Downing. I mean to have St.
George’s secret eventually and you can’t
stop me. I’ll have you adjudged incur¬
ably insane and put away for life. No¬
body will listen to your ravings.”

Downing grinned. “I don’t think so,
Doctor. You see, we have reached a point
where we need each other’s help. St.
George won’t rest until you’re a crawl¬
ing, squirming snake. You can’t hide
from him now. He’ll seek you out-”

“Stop!” Jamison clamped his head be¬
tween both hands and shuddered.
“Downing, is there any way to help
me? Any way at all?”

Downing sat down in the chair which
St. George had occupied.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I know a place
where he would never look. You’d be
quite safe there so long as I wanted you
to be safe. Now I didn’t overhear the
entire conversation between you two.
Suppose St. George was done away with
and you had his power. What would
you do with it?”

Jamison gave Downing a sly glance.
“I am a doctor,” he said. “A scientist.
Whatever I discovered would be held as
a scientific secret. It is too big to be re¬
leased upon the world. People aren’t

THE GREAT EGO

ready for it yet. St. George is a few
hundred years ahead of his time. His
knowledge belongs far in the future, and
no man has the right to know that.”

“Then I can take your word that this
secret would remain a secret to be used
for experimental purposes by scientists
only?”

“That is my solemn promise. All you
have to do is hide me until we can trick
St. George. Then I’ll make him talk. To
use this power he must store up certain
rays within his system. Without them
he is impotent to do any harm. If we
can get him when he hasn’t had a chance
to absorb the rays, we will have him.”

Downing nodded slowly. “That’s it.
Meanwhile, you must hide. I’ve got a
cabin up at Lake Greenwald. I’ll mark
it for you on a map. You can reach it
quickly and on a small amount of gaso¬
line. Stay there until you hear from me.
Don’t leave under any circumstances.”

“Give me the directions. For heaven’s
sake, hurry,” Jamison said. “He may
transport himself back here again at any
moment. Help yourself to one of my
suits. Anything you wish. I’ll even sign
a release for you.”

“No,” Downing said. “I’ll remain here
because St. George won’t pull any of his
fancy tricks. There is a certain amount
of suspicion attached to him now and if
I turn into a cat, the whole thing might
blow up in his face. If the law should
start hunting him down with riot guns—
well, he’s not invulnerable, you know,
and he can’t be on guard constantly.”

CHAPTER XVIII
Without Fear

R ODNEY St. George sank into a
chair when he found himself safe
once more in the privacy of his own liv¬
ing room. He saw the hypo which Jami¬
son had used on him and shivered. He
was vulnerable under certain conditions
and so long as Jamison and Downing
lived, he was in mortal danger.

St. George scowled and cursed the fact

that he had been unable to mete out ven¬
geance to that pair. That had been a very
narrow escape from the fanatical Down¬
ing. He shuddered to think what would
have happened had he not had sufficient
power for that last teleportation.

He didn’t rush to his basement labora¬
tory to absorb more of the ray. That
was useless, for both Downing and St.
George would have disappeared by now.
He would have to wait, bide his time and
plan carefully. When the opportune
moment came he would strike.

There was still work to be done. He
must learn that one last secret. The
missing scroll held it and he knew now
where that scroll was. Pamela Brooke
could get it for him. He had the money
and it was better to handle the deal hon¬
estly.

The buzzing of his telephone gave St.
George the jitters for a few seconds. He
answered, and Pamela’s voice came over
the wire.

“Rodney,” she said with a mild degree
of exasperation in her voice. “I came
to visit you, but there was nobody home.
Don’t tell me you forgot so soon?”

“Indeed I didn’t,” St. George declared
stoutly. “I was unavoidably detained
this evening. I promise it will never
happen again, Pamela. And I must see
you. It’s vitally important.”

“Not tonight,” Pamela answered. “It’s
late, and besides you deserve to be pun¬
ished for standing me up.”

“Tomorrow night will do,” St. George
said. “Or better yet—how about lunch¬
eon at the usual place and then another
appointment for the evening? There is
something you can do for me.”

“I’ll be at the regular table, Rodney.
Good night—dear.”

St. George basked in that ‘dear’ for a
few moments. Then the howling of his
hungry cats aroused him. For a moment
he toyed with the idea of killing them
all but rejected it. They had been of
slight service against both Downing and
Jamison. Perhaps he could use them
again.

He went out, therefore, and bought
food and milk for them. They stayed
out of sight until the food was on the

STARTLING STORIES

floor and he had withdrawn. St. George
laughed elatedly. Soon he would have
the entire world crawling like that.

For the next two hours he tried to con¬
centrate upon his books and failed! Dr.
Jamison was too prominent in his mind.
And Downing, too, loomed as a menace.
St. George suddenly felt weak as he
thought again just how close to death
he’d been.

That puzzle of what to do about Jami¬
son without Rodney St. George being
implicated kept him awake half the
night. Perhaps Downing would bargain.
That would be all right. He could dis¬
pose of him at any time. St. George
decided to pay Downing a visit if he was
still at the asylum. He’d learn whether
Jamison was still alive, too.

The next morning Rodney St. George
did something he’d never done before
in twenty-eight years. He phoned the
bank and said that he would not be in
all day. It was rather nice to give the
orders instead of taking them. When
he got possession of that last scroll and
learned its secret, he’d never take orders
again.

He also did something else unique in
St. George’s history. He went to a cloth¬
ing store and purchased a complete out¬
fit, dropped his usual meekness to insist
it be ready by noon. He stayed there
while the alterations were made.

Shortly after twelve o’clock Rocco
came very close to hysterics. At first, he
didn’t recognize the dapper man who
approached his restaurant. He yelled for
Luigi and pointed. Luigi tried to talk,
but words wouldn’t come. All he could
do was bow low to Rodney St. George
and escort him to the table where Pam¬
ela waited.

S T. GEORGE ordered champagne and
an elaborate dinner instead of lunch.
Pamela looked him over, closed her eyes
and looked again. The old Rodney St.
George had vanished. The meek, inof¬
fensive little teller was gone forever. In
his place sat a carefully dressed man
with a look of cold triumph in his eyes.
His clothing was expensive, his manners
suave.

“Why, Rodney!” she exclaimed.

“Like me?” St. George smiled. “It is
a rather drastic change isn’t it? But then
I’m going up in the world. You can’t
even guess how far, Pamela.”

“Why are you so sure?” she asked
quietly. “I knew you could do big
things.”

“No other living person could grasp
what I’m after. Pamela, I need your
help. In just a few days I’ll make you
the leading woman of this country. Of
the world. I will make you queen of the
stars! No queen will ever have had so
much respect. You know, of course, I’m
in love with you.”

She nodded. “I guessed that, Rodney.
But it isn’t so long since Jim was—put
away, so let’s not make any plans now.
Please.”

“Of course not.” St. George held her
hands openly. “It’s necessary that I
wait, too. Here’s what I want you to
do. Through the book store where you
work, you may be able to purchase a
scroll for me. One of the most ancient
things in the world, and it is right here
in town in the Fairbridge museum. I
have written full particulars and here
they are. Will you try to buy it for me?
The museum will part with the thing for
enough money.”

“Certainly, Rodney. I’ll even handle
it on the side so you won’t have to pay
my firm a commission. How high can
I bid?”

“Any amount, but do not give an ink¬
ling of how important this is. I’m not
a poor man. Far from it.”

Luigi served the dinner with flour¬
ishes. After the meal they sipped li¬
queurs and St. George gave his compan¬
ion a peculiar glance.

“Pamela, you won’t see Downing
again?”

“Why should I?” she countered, and
smiled over the rim of the tiny glass.

“Good. Very good, my dear. You won’t
be sorry. Mark my words. Shall I see
you tonight then?”

“I’ll call the moment I get home. Oh,
Rodney, I forgot to tell you, my aunt
went out to the coast, and I’m using her
house. I’d like to have you see it. We’d

THE GREAT EGO

be alone tonight. I’ll have the scroll if
I can possibly get it. As agent for my
firm I may be allowed to take it away on
approval.”

“Pamela,” St. George said, “I’m really
very grateful to Downing. If it hadn’t
been for his—ah—misfortune, I would
never have met you. Tonight then. I’ll
be waiting for your call.”

St. George stayed at the restaurant for
another hour, sipping cocktails. Luigi
proclaimed him his idol, his patron saint
—and hoped St. George would break
down and leave another dollar tip. Luigi
wasn’t disappointed. A five-dollar bill
rested beside the plate when St. George
finally arose.

He was almost at peace with the world.
Only the menace of Dr. Jamison and the
danger from Jim Downing remained.

St. George frowned as he walked along
the street. Perhaps he ought to see what
happened to Jamison and take care of
the man. St. George smiled as he
thought of a wriggling black snake. If
that was what Jamison feared about all
else—then that was what he’d become.

But that could wait a short time. There
were more personal matters. Pamela had
liked his suit so St. George decided to
buy more. After twenty-eight years, a
buying spree was novel and intriguing.
He hailed a taxi and returned to the
clothing store.

ffl PAMELA, meanwhile, had left the
restaurant, hurried around the cor¬
ner and climbed into a roadster. She
drove straight to the Jamison sanitarium,
up the winding, half-mile drive to the
entrance, and a few minutes later Down¬
ing held her tightly. She told him all.

“Jim,” she finished frantically, “he’s so
hopped up with his own importance he is
ready to burst wide open. From no one
at all, he has developed the greatest ego
I have ever seen. The man is a dangerous
maniac.”

“Even more than you think,” Jim said.
“And Dr. Jamison is almost as bad. I’ve
hidden him at the cabin at the lake. Jami¬
son knows too much about St. George’s
secrets. We must dispose of both men.
Jamison is power mad.”

“So is St. George. I prodded him a bit,
told him he is an important man. Com¬
mented on the little changes he made in
his attitude, but now he’s gone the whole
hog. He bought a new outfit. And there
is an icy deadliness about him.”

Downing look worried, “Things are
ready to break, darling. If they go
against us, heaven knows what will hap¬
pen. Yet we must handle St. George
alone. Jamison, too.”

Pamela sat down slowly. “Jim, why
did you ask me to inflate his ego that
way?”

“For one reason. Men with high opin¬
ions of themselves fail to see their
shortcomings. You find that out in the
banking business. St. George will have
so much on his mind he won’t able to
think lucidly. He’ll be confused and
then we’ll have him. Always remember,
basically his nature is that of a rabbit.
His egotistic form only hides the weak¬
ness of his character. We must play one
man against the other—but it is true we
are playing with fire”

“You will . . . kill him?” Pamela asked
very softly.

“Even if it means you and I can never
be together again, darling. Jamison has
to go, too. He is close on the heels of
St. George’s secret and equally danger¬
ous.”

Pamela bit her lip, and her lovely eyes
filled with tears.

“I know it may mean a sacrifice,” she
said. “But I’ll be brave, Jim. St. George
knows now there are few things he can’t
have. He is worse than any combination
of world conquerors because he fights
with strange and awful weapons. But
I’m not afraid, Jim. I’ll never be afraid
again.”

“Good girl!” murmured Downing, kiss¬
ing her. “Now listen closely while I out¬
line our battle plan.”

CHAPTER XIX
Catastrophe

OT more than two minutes after
Pamela had departed and a guard

STARTLING STORIES

locked the door, Downing felt a strong
current of air sweep through his room.
It was like a miniature tornado, and
Rodney St. George stood before him
smiling suavely.

This was a new St. George. A man
with fresh powers and horribly sure of
himself. Downing shrank back. Not in
fear for himself, but for Pamela. If
St. George had seen her here, no telling
what he might do.

“How did you get here?” Downing
gasped. “Wh-what happened?”

St. George chuckled. “Just like I
left here last night. Don’t be alarmed.
I am not here to harm you. Last night
you really did save my life even though
you later intended to take it. If you are
calmer now, I want to talk to you.
Where is Dr. Jamison?”

“But how did you get into this locked
room?” Downing demanded, feigning
ignorance of the phenomenon Jamison
had called ‘apport’, which ranking
scientists refused to recognize.

“Distance,” St. George said, “means
nothing to me any more. Neither do
doors nor bolts nor walls. I’ve learned
new things since you were locked up
here.”

Downing threw a swift glance out of
the window. Pamela’s car was still
there. Why didn’t she get away? Why
didn’t she hurry?

“Something worries you, Downing?”
St. George asked.

“Worries me?” Downing grunted.
“You turned me into a kitten, then into
a mouse. You vanished before my eyes
last night, reappeared today. Now you
ask me if I’m worried about something.
Yes, I am. Scared, too.”

St. George nodded. “You heard more
than was good for you last night. How¬
ever, I’m inclined to forget and forgive
—under certain conditions. It was
through you I met Pamela. She isn’t
going to marry you, Downing.”

“That isn’t news,” Downing said and
broke out in a cold sweat as St. George
moved toward the window and glanced
out of it. “How could she, anyway?
I’m supposed to be tainted with insanity.
St. George, if I promise not ,to act against

you any further—”

“What do I care about your promises,”
St. George queried and kept looking out
of the window. “Where is Jamison, I
asked you. Did you kill him last night?”

“No,” Downing answered. “When
you disappeared so abruptly it unnerved
me. I left the room before Jamison saw
me. I don’t know where he went. Per¬
haps I could find him for you.”

“Trying to make a deal, Downing?
Very well. Find him and you’ll be per¬
mitted to stay here. Fail and I’ll change
you into something you intensely dis¬
like. That, my dear fellow, is an ulti¬
matum. Does it surprise you?”

“Nothing will ever surprise me any
more,” Downing groaned.

He heard the motor of a car start up
and he closed his eyes slowly, like a
man who hears the guillotine blade slid¬
ing down toward his neck.

“I’ll give you twenty-four hours,” St.
George said. “No longer. If you have
cooked up some scheme with Jamison,
I— Pamela! What was she doing here
at this place?”

He raised his hand, made the sign of
the Tau cross, and where he had stood
was blank space. Downing rushed to
the window, but he couldn’t see a thing.
The roadster had vanished down the
winding drive.

For a moment Downing wondered if
he might help by trying to overtake the
car. It was no use. Everything de¬
pended upon Pamela’s ingenuity. She’d
have to think fast. St. George was sus¬
picious and angry about the whole thing.
Downing sat shakily on the edge of the
bed.

Now he had the greatest problem of
his life to consider. First of all, though,
he had to put out of his mind any
thoughts that Pamela might fail to con¬
vince St. George of her loyalty to him.
If she were converted into some other
form, Downing’s whole world would
crumple.

M EANWHILE, Pamela drove away
with her heart lighter than it had
been for days. This weird case was com¬
ing to a close and she relied upon Down-

THE GREAT EGO

ing's ability to think faster and better
than St. George.

There was momentary silence between
shifting from first to second and during
that split second, she heard her name
called. Pamela glanced into the rear
view mirror and almost screamed. Rod¬
ney St. George stood on the lowest step
of the hospital entrance with his right
hand raised. Pamela didn’t stop. She
stepped hard on the gas pedal and shot
around the corner.

Her heart pounded as madly as the
eight cylinders beneath the hood of the
roadster. She thought frantically of
some excuse for her presence at the hos¬
pital.

Then her foot banged down on the
brake. Rodney St. George stood direct¬
ly in the middle of the driveway ahead
with one hand upraised. Pam switched
her foot from the brake to the gas pedal.
In a moment, St. George would gesture,
and she’d turn into something. A cat,
perhaps or some other form of animal
life which St. George would will upon
her. Pamela decided she’d rather be
dead and hoped the speedy car would
crash if she was no longer able to con¬
trol it.

St. George made a sign in the air and
vanished. As Pamela’s car roared
through the spot he occupied, there was
no horrible impact. He’d just vanished.
Pam held her breath, took the next cor¬
ner and there he was again, imperiously
trying to block her way. She knew she
was going mad.

Pamela jerked the wheel to avoid hit¬
ting him this time. It was more a mat¬
ter of instinct than of trying to save his
life. And again he disappeared after
making that strange sign. Pamela
looked down at her arms on the wheel.
They were still human. She glanced
into the mirror. There’d been no con¬
version.

She breathed a bit easier then, but
realized she was no longer safe from
him. He was bound to find her if he
could blink into and out of existence
like an electric sign anywhere he chose.

Shortly afterward, she ran the car into
the garage behind her home, rushed to

the house and let herself in. She re¬
moved her hat and coat, walked into the
spacious living room and sat down
weakly.

In her mind’s eye she could see St.
George commanding her to stop, see the
grim, foreboding look on his face just
before he vanished. Now he would find
her. He’d ask questions, insist upon an¬
swers. Pamela shuddered. Her answers
could only be built upon the shaky foun¬
dations of lies.

She was still seated there when the
curtains in the room suddenly lifted al¬
most straight out and she felt a cool
breeze, although all windows were tight¬
ly closed. She saw him then, standing
about ten feet away from her. And she
screamed in terror.

“I would like to know what you were
doing at the sanitarium, Pamela,” he
said in a curiously calm voice. “I would
like an explanation of why you refused
to recognize me when I tried to stop
you. In fact, why you deliberately at¬
tempted to run me down.”

“Rodney!” Pamela had eloquent fear
shining in her eyes and all of it wasn’t
pretended. “How did you get here—
like this? It is—you?”

“Yes, indeed. Don’t be alarmed. I
shall explain later how I managed to
suddenly appear, but first you must an¬
swer my questions.”

“Was it really you up there at the
sanitarium?” she asked. “I—I thought
I must have been dreaming when you
stood in the middle of the driveway.
Then you appeared again. Rodney,
nothing makes sense. I—I just can’t
seem to understand.”

“Didn’t you hear me call to you as
you started away?” St. George asked.

“Hear you call? No, Rodney. You
just appeared and I—I became con¬
fused.”

“Very well,” St. George said and his
voice was a bit less skeptical. “It is
possible you did not hear me and I must
say I do not blame you for not slowing
down. I must have seemed like a ghost.
But, first, why did you visit the sani¬
tarium in the first place? I thought you
were going to forget Downing.”

STARTLING STORIES

“I am. But you practically asked me
to marry you, Rodney. I am taking a
big step and, after all, I did think I was
in love with Jim Downing once. I want¬
ed to see him again, just to make certain.
I drove to the hospital, but it wasn’t
necessary to see him again. I knew
then that it was—you.”

S T. GEORGE smiled warmly, walked
over and took her hands. They
were ice cold. He led her to a divan and
they both sat down, Pamela all but fall¬
ing to the couch.

“Excuses would never have worked
with me, Pamela. I would have seen
right through them. But I know you
are telling the truth because I knew you
had not visited Downing. You see, I
was in his room when I saw you leav¬
ing.”

“Then you’re not angry?” Pamela
asked.

“Certainly not. I consider your act
logical. I owe you a great deal, Pamela.
You showed me how to enjoy life. You
brought me out of a ghastly rut. You
never made fun of me because I was
small. Now you shall have a reward.
Pamela, one second before I appeared in
this room, I was at home.”

“But how—”

“Don’t ask questions now,” he told her
with another smile. He was so sure of
himself, this under-sized Napoleon.
“There is an explanation for everything
and soon you shall know just what I am.
You have probably sensed that I am not
an ordinary man, Pamela. When I am
certain of your faith in me, of your
love, we shall begin to do great things.”

“Would you be angry if I told you I’ve
known for a long time?” Pam asked, in¬
wardly trembling as she proceeded with
the necessary next step of Downing’s
plan.

St. George’s eyes flashed. “What do
you mean?”

“I know you turned Foster into a cat.
I know you changed Jim into a kitten
and that he is no more insane than I.
I believe every word of his story.”

St. George jumped up and raised his
hand angrily. “Then you have plotted

with him. You have led me on. I’ve
been a fool. Foster warned me. He
told me you were as untrustworthy as
Downing himself. But I couldn’t be¬
lieve it. I-I felt that you really were in
love with me even though I was nothing
but an assistant cashier at the bank. I’ve
been tricked!”

“No, Rodney,” Pamela said quietly.
“There are no tricks. Listen to what I
have to say and if you do not believe me,
then turn me into any form you choose.
When Mr. Arnold at the bank phoned to
establish your alibi when Dick Zarat
was robbed, I lied to him. I knew then
that you had robbed the boy. I also
realized there must have been a great
reason for your having done so.”

“There was,” St. George said. “I
needed the money he was carrying.
Also, that boy was becoming too sus¬
picious of me. The police will hardly
believe his story. He’ll be fired from
the bank and will no longer be in my
way.”

“There is something else, Rodney,”
Pamela said quietly.

“Well?” he demanded.

“The night you visited Chandler, I
was there. I saw you turn him into a
cat. I watched you throw his body out
the window. I didn’t blame you for it.
That book didn’t belong to him because
he’d never have understood it. It was
yours.”

“Perhaps,” St. George accused, “you
are guessing. Perhaps Downing put
you up to all of this.”

P AMELA opened her purse. “I was
talking to Mrs. Chandler when you
arrived, Rodney. I cut the interview
short. She only wanted to buy more
sets of books for a second library room.
I was in the next room when—it hap¬
pened. After you left, I got this from
Chandler’s desk.”

She held out the incriminating name
card which had caused Rodney St.
George to sweat blood for days. He
took it in wonder, and the intense ex¬
pression on his face softened into a
happy smile.

“You might have got into serious

THE GREAT EGO

trouble by forgetting the card, Rodney,”
she said.

He sat down again.

“Pamela, I’m sorry. But I’m one man
against the world now. There are
some who wish to kill me. I felt
that I could trust no one except you,
and then when I saw you at the sani¬
tarium, and when you just admitted
how much you knew, I—well, forgive
me, Pamela. Now I’m sure you are on
my side.”

“I’m glad,” she said simply, and felt
like fainting dead away.

“If there was time, I could tell you
things that would show what I have
really become,” St. George beamed.
“But there are many things to be done.
Strenuous research and study and hard
work placed me in the position I now
occupy. I mustn’t stop. Now until I
have reached absolute perfection.”

“You will,” Pamela predicted. “It’s
fated, Rodney. These secrets have rest¬
ed in those books for centuries. The
wisest men passed over them blindly un¬
til the very wisest came along. You,
Rodney. Tell me, what will you do with
all this power?”

“Do!” he frowned. “I hadn’t thought
of that too much. There are certain
people I don’t like and they’ll feel my
wrath first. Others may dicker with me
if I choose to let them. Oh, I’ll whistle
the tune. Now what about the scroll?”

“I may have it tonight. Possibly, I
may have to wait until tomorrow or the
next day, but the moment it is in my
hands, I will phone.”

“Excellent,” St. George gloated. “You
deserve to share with me all the glory I
shall attain. Now I must go back.
Please don’t be startled when I leave.”

St. George raised his hand, made the
Tau cross sign and disappeared.

Pamela half arose and then fell limply
back to lie on the divan. Through her
mind flashed the thought that she and
Jim Downing could never cope with
such a man as this. Yet they must, or
the consequences would affect every liv¬
ing being on the face of the earth.

Something cracked against the win¬
dow pane. She gave a startled jump.

CHAPTER XX
Plans for Destruction

R AISING the shade, she saw Jim
Downing. Pamela gave a happy cry
and ran to the back door. He held her
tightly for a moment.

She drew back. “Jim, it’s dangerous
coming here like this. He can appear in
an instant.”

“I know,” Downing said. “He was in
my room at the sanitarium, spotted you
leaving and went off after you. I’ve been
worried sick ever since. I slipped away.
Did you convince him you are not work¬
ing with me?”

“Yes, Jim. He is sure I am on his
side. He wants me to get that scroll. I
can’t stall any longer. The Fairbridge
museum will never surrender it for any
price, but he could get it if he wished.
I didn’t dare tell him. What am I going
to do?”

Downing paced the floor, running fin¬
gers through his hair.

“We’ve got to telescope our plans,”
he said. “It must be drastic, too. If St.
George isn’t stopped in his tracks, there
is no telling what will happen. He’s off
the beam, filled with delusions of gran¬
deur.”

“They aren’t all delusions,” Pamela
put in slowly. “Rodney St. George
really does hold the whip hand and is
probably one of the most powerful per¬
sons on the face of the earth right now.
That power makes him.”

Downing grunted and brought his fist
down on the end of a table. “Pam, there
is a way. I know enough about science
and rays to realize that St. George’s
power comes from that machine of his.
I don’t know the details, naturally, but if
this machine is destroyed, then St.
George becomes impotent and we can
handle him at our leisure. Perhaps we’re
wrong. He might become an asset to the
world, but he has already committed
murder and theft —and we don’t dare
take the chance.”

Pamela gave Downing a frightened
glance.

STARTLING STORIES

“Do you mean we must invade his
house and destroy the machine? Jim,
what if he finds us there?

“We must arrange things so he won’t.
We’ll go into the neighborhood. You
telephone him from nearby, say he must
come to your house at once. He’ll be
there in seconds, yes, but it will take
him a few moments to orient himself and
guess he was tricked. In that space of
time, we must destroy his machine.
Then we must trap and destroy him.”

Pamela nodded’ very slowly. “It seems
to be the only method, dangerous as it
may be, Jim. I’ll do my part. But what
about Dr. Jamison?”

“We’ll have to make new plans,”
Downing said slowly.

“My impression is that he has seen
this ray device and perhaps knows a
lot about it, but not all. If he did, St.
George would have been more anxious
to find him. Now tell me again about
that scroll.”

Pamela did, adding, “The object is, of
course, not for sale to anyone. It’s much
too precious. In fact, they keep it locked
in a case so no one can touch it.”

“All of which means nothing to St.
George,” Downing grunted. “What are
locks and steel doors to a man who can
transport himself anywhere? Look, if
the worse comes to the worst, we must
use the scroll as a talking point. I’ll be
back in about an hour, darling. Then
we’ll wind this up—or turn into some
other form of life.”

Pamela shuddered and stepped closer
to him. She looked up.

“Jim, I’m terribly frightened. If we
make the slightest mistake—”

“I know. It means curtains, but, Pam,
we must do it. We can’t call in police or
G-Men. Who’d believe us? Therefore,
St. George and all his works must be
destroyed. Dr. Jamison may have to be
disposed of too, somehow. The danger
involved mustn’t stop us.”

“It won’t,” Pamela said softly. “Take
care, Jim, that he doesn’t see you.”

"■^OWNING left, using a taxicab to
" ™ make the single call he had in mind.
Then he was driven back to Pamela’s

house. He approached it with some tre¬
pidation. There was no telling when
St. George might whisk through space to
surprise Pam. If he caught them to¬
gether, there wouldn’t be a chance of
escaping his wrath.

Pamela was alone and safe. She ad¬
mitted Downing hastily and closed and
bolted the door behind him. Then she
gave a short, mirthless laugh at the futil¬
ity of locks against St. George.

“I think,” Downing said, “we’re about
ready to start. It’s very dark Outside
which will help. Ready?”

“Yes, Jim. I’m ready.” Pamela’s head
was high, her eyes clear and unafraid.

They walked out together and got into
Pamela’s car. Downing drove it, choos¬
ing a rather roundabout route to reach
St. George’s home. There were lights
burning in the windows and once they
saw St. George’s profile against drawn
curtains.

Downing spoke softly. “Let me out
here. Then drive to the corner, use the
telephone in the drug store there and
leave immediately. Drive back and I’ll
let you in if I can. From then on, we
race against time and a man possessed
of the greatest speed in history. Good
luck, Pam.”

She kissed him fiercely. “Good luck,
darling. We can’t fail.”

He watched her dnve down the street
until he saw the tail light edge toward
the curb. Then Downing trotted softly
through a neighborhood yard and came
at St. George’s house from the rear. On
his way, he picked up a large stone and
held it firmly.

He guessed that St. George’s tele¬
phone would be in the living room and
made his way to a rear window. Raising
himself slightly, he peeked through a
narrow slit in the shade and saw St.
George talking on the phone. He
watched him hang up the instrument,
give an expansive smile and then arise.
St. George raised his hand, made the
sign of the Tau cross and vanished.

Downing smashed the window pane
with one blow. His hands were cut as
he reached in to manipulate the catch,
but even the pain of the cuts felt good.

THE GREAT EGO

It was stimulating. He raised the win¬
dow, climbed through and headed to¬
ward the front door. Pam was just
pulling up in front.

He sidestepped the howling cats, got
the door open, and Pam entered. She
drew back as the cats spat at her. Down¬
ing led her toward the cellar door. They
descended quickly, locking the cats up¬
stairs. Both could hear them scratching
angrily on the panels.

Downing found the wall where the
secret door led into the lab. He wasted
no time searching for the device which
tripped the lock. There were furnace
tools handy and he seized the heaviest
one. Raising it, he gauged a blow that
would fall right above thet spot where
he’d noticed a footprint passing straight
through the wall.

“Jim!” Pamela said it with a quick
inhalation. “Jim—listen!”

Downing slowly let the iron tool sag in
his grip. There were footsteps above.
The mewing of the cats had stopped.
The steps were quick and mincing. Rod¬
ney St. George was back.

Downing motioned to Pamela for sil¬
ence. Gripping the iron tool firmly once
more, he started to cross the floor toward
the steps. The door above opened.

“Please don’t be impatient,” Rodney
St. George said. “I’m coming as fast
as possible. You practically scared my
cats out of their wits, did you know
that?”

They watched him descend, calmly
and yet arrogantly. St. George smiled
at Pamela.

“People like me,” he said, “must learn
early how to take disappointment along
with success. I had great plans for us,
Pamela. Very great plans, but after I
left your home today, I know you were
working on Downing’s side. You see, I
paid the sanitarium another visit. Down¬
ing was not in his room. So I knew he
must have been in contact with you and
therefore you had lied to me.”

Downing still held the iron bar high.

“St. George,” he said sharply, “what¬
ever happens to me doesn’t matter much.
I’m willing to do anything you say, but
Pam deserves a chance. She was acci¬

dentally mixed up in this affair.”

S T. GEORGE turned very slowly and
when he spoke, his voice was full
of scorn.

“You actually plead with me. Down¬
ing? A pleasant sensation, I must say,
but it will get you nothing. Pamela is
as dangerous to my work as you are.
Put down that iron bar, Downing. Put
it down instantly.”

Downing took a long shot. He drew
back to hurl the bar at St. George, but
even before that movement began, he
knew he was licked. St. George merely
raised his hand, drew the invisible line,
wound the vine around it and the iron
bar clattered to the floor, narrowly miss¬
ing a frightened kitten which had sud¬
denly materialized.

Downing’s human form was rigid as
steel and just as lifeless. The kitten
slowly backed away.

Pamela gave a scream, started forward
and St. George seized her wrist. He
flung her around until she struck the
wall. Then he smiled very suavely at
her.

“Calm yourself, my dear. It will do
you no good to weep. We are going into
my laboratory. Oh yes, Downing can
come, too. As a kitten, of course. Re¬
member—by raising my hand, I can con¬
vert you, also.”

He walked up to the wall, removed
the calendar and used his key. The door
opened. He stepped to one side and
bowed ironically for Pamela to enter
first. The kitten darted between his legs
and ran into the lab.

St. George closed the door behind him.
“You underestimated me, Pamela. Sad¬
ly so. Of course, the phone call tonight
was obviously part of a trap. I pre¬
tended to fall for it. I reached your home
in the space of a second or two. I felt
of the telephone and found it quite cold.
Your hands hadn’t grasped it or the
instrument would have been warm. Then
I merely bided my time a moment and
returned here. The window was
smashed and I knew both of you were in
the cellar.”

“What are you going to do?” Pamela

STARTLING STORIES

found her voice and conquered the iner¬
tia of terror. She found herself think¬
ing calmly. Thinking of what Downing
had said. Her knowledge of the lost
scroll was their ace-in-the-hole.

“Do?” St. George shrugged. “I really
don’t know. Of course, I shall compel
Downing to tell me where Dr. Jamison
is. I must find him.”

“And then?”

“I shall have to attend to you, my
dear. You shall be something quite
lovely. It will take time to think of. I
seem to notice a glint of determination
in your eyes. Do you still think I am
vulnerable?”

“Yes. St. George, I know where that
scroll is. No one else does. It would
take you months to re-locate it. If you
do not change Jim Downing back to his
human form and release both of us, you
shall never know from me how to find
the scroll.”

“You would have made such a compe¬
tent assistant,” St. George sighed. “Pam¬
ela, I am growing impatient. Tell me
where the scroll is or I shall take that
weak little kitten upstairs and allow my
cats to kill it. They are all quite eager
to rip Downing into shreds.”

“Killing Jim won’t get you the scroll,”
Pamela said quietly. “In fact, if you
do that, there can never be a bargain.”

St. George scrutinized her carefully.

“You know,” he said, “I think you
mean that. Perhaps we can reach some
agreement, but only if Downing tells me
where to find Dr. Jamison. That comes
first. Pamela, I’m going to ask your co¬
operation. Please sit down in that chair
so I can tie you firmly. Then I shall
convert myself into a cat and talk to
Downing. I promise no harm will come
to either of you—yet.”

Pamela could do nothing but obey. St.
George strapped her to the chair, stepped
back and chuckled.

“Dr. Jamison did that to me. The fool,
he was so close to outwitting me and
then failed. Now I shall talk to Down¬
ing.”

St. George lifted a hand, made the
sign and his human form froze. The big
black cat sat on the floor calmly licking

a paw. The kitten came from beneath
a table slowly, not knowing just what to
expect.

CHAPTER XXI
Black Serpents

OME over here. Downing,” the
black cat said. “I won’t hurt you.
All I want is information about Dr. Jam¬
ison.”

“I won’t tell you a thing,” Downing
said curtly.

The black cat seemed to laugh. “Now
be reasonable. Dr. Jamison is a menace.
He knows too much. Let me take care
of him and then I shall bargain with you
and Pamela. She holds the cards at the
moment—unless you know where the
scroll is.”

“I don’t,” Downing said. “I wouldn’t
let her tell me. All right, it’s a deal. Dr.
Jamison is hiding at my cabin near the
lake. You know where it is. The per¬
sonnel of the bank went there for an
outing last year.”

“Oh, yes,” the black cat said. “Foolish
of me not to think of it before. Has Dr.
Jamison a car there?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. I cannot transport him
through space as I can myself, but I’ll be
there in a moment, surprise him most un¬
pleasantly and bring him back here. As
I recall it, Jamison’s greatest fear was
being changed into a snake. I won’t do
that immediately. I’ll turn him into a
kitten l : '*e yourself, but when we get
here, J ant you to tell him he is fated
to live"*the rest of his life as a snake.
Thank you, Downing. Why not climb
into Pamela’s lap? You can sleep while
I’m gone.”

The black cat vanished. St. George’s
human body grew mobile and he smiled
at Pamela.

“Downing shows great sense. I am go¬
ing after Dr. Jamison. I hope you will
not be too uncomfortable while I am
gone.”

He disappeared in a wink. Pamela

THE GREAT EGO

looked down at the kitten and she talked
even though she knew the kitten
wouldn’t understand. At least she could
make her voice comforting.

More than an hour went by. Then the
door opened upstairs. Soon St. George
was back and under his arm was a kitten
that struggled futilely. St. George threw
the animal to the floor.

“Jamison is an impossible creature,”
St. George shrugged. “I shall be well
rid of him. Now, Pamela, the scroll. I
must have that scroll.”

“Turn Jim back. Untie me. Let him
get far away from here and then I’ll tell
you. Not until then.”

St. George frowned. Then he seemed
to think of something important. He
walked over to the table, lay down on it
and pushed home the switch. The X-ray
machine glowed. The giant tube turned
purple and cast its weird light over the
room.

On the floor, the kitten in whose form
Dr. Jamison’s brain and spirit had been
incorporated, sat on its hind legs to see
better. Downing ambled over beside him.

“Look at him, filling his brain with
those rays,” Jamison said. “That should
be me on the table. You spoiled that,
Downing. I wish I were big enough to
rip you into shreds.”

“Forget revenge, will you?” Downing
said. “St. George has created a new type
of X-ray tube, hasn’t he? How does the
thing work?”

“It generates a form of power at pres¬
ent unknown to science. This power is
transmitted to St. George’s brain and
concentrated there. He can release it at
will by merely making that gesture with
his hand. The power stored up is so
great that whoever is on the receiving
end of it, turns into anything that St.
George wills. It’s a combination of mod¬
ern science and sorcery.”

“And St. George can store up only so
much power?” Downing asked. “He
has to be charged like a battery every
now and then? I suppose everything
depends upon that new tube.”

“Everything. Why are you asking all
those questions? Do you think he’ll let
you go? The man means to get rid of all

three of us.”

"You’re going to become a snake,”
Downing said softly. “That much he
told me. Look at him—the machine is
shut off now. Here come the fireworks.”

T. GEORGE swung off the table and
walked over to Pamela.

“Changed your mind yet, my dear? I
think I shall be compelled to show you
what will happen to Downing. It won’t
be nice.”

Pamela felt completely crushed. There
was no use fighting this monster. He was
indomitable. Perhaps Jim knew of some¬
thing. If she could have him brought
back to his human form for just a few
moments.

“Rodney,” she said, “I realize how
helpless we are against you. Perhaps
you should have the scroll. You who
have accomplished so much. Let me see
Jim again, in human form. Let me talk
to him for a few moments. You surely
can’t deny me that. Then I shall tell
you where the scroll now is.”

St. George gave her a fishy stare. “This
has all the earmarks of a trick. How¬
ever, I warn you I can protect myself.
Wait, while I bring Downing’s human
form in here.”

St. George struggled with Downing’s
heavy body, but managed to get it into
the lab, to bend the limbs and seat it in a
chair similar to the one Pamela occupied.
He applied stout ropes, smiled conten¬
tedly and called the kitten which was
now Jim Downing’s living form. He
gestur'd. The kitten vanished and
Dov ,.g strained at the bonds that held
him firmly to the chair.

Then he suddenly seemed to have rea¬
lized what happened and stopped strug¬
gling.

“Thanks,” he said. “That was decent
of you, St. George. I did as you re¬
quested. I told Dr. Jamison you prom¬
ised to turn him into a snake. A black
snake. He’s frantic.”

“Oh,” St. George turned quickly. The
kitten backed away in alarm. St. George
gestured. The kitten vanished and a
medium-sized serpent wriggled frantic¬
ally on the floor. St. George laughed.

STARTLING STORIES

“Now, Pamela, you must keep your
promise. Where is the scroll?”

She gave Downing a hopeless look.

“Tell him, Pam,” Downing ordered.
“He controls us like a puppet master
runs his dolls. If we obey, we may be
repaid somehow.”

“It is in the third foor case from the
door in the manuscript room at the Mu¬
seum,” Pamela said reluctantly.

St. George gave a happy cry, made the
Tau cross sign and vanished. Neither
Pamela nor Downing spoke while he
was gone. The black snake continued
wriggling angrily over the floor. Then
St. George was back, and he held an an¬
cient scroll in his hands. His face was
flushed with elation.

Paying no attention to his prisoners,
he sat down and opened the scroll. He
read avidly and then his flushed face
turned perfectly white with rage. Jump¬
ing up, he faced Pamela and Downing.

“This is not the scroll and you know
it. You sent me on a useless chase. I
warn you my temper is reaching the boil¬
ing point. In one moment you will join
Dr. Jamison. I am in no mood to—”

“Hold it,” Downing said. “We didn’t
trick you, but I know who did. Dr.
Jamison talked to me while he was a
kitten. I thought he’d gone crazy. Jam¬
ison was on the board of directors at
that museum. He had access to the scroll
and he switched it for another. He has
the scroll and—he has the secret of your
power, St. George.”

“What do you mean? That is impos¬
sible !”

“No, it isn’t,” Downing answered
steadily. “While you were treating
yourself to those rays, Jamison crawled
beneath the machine and absorbed some
of them, too. All he wants is a chance to
use his power on you, St. George. Listen
—I’d rather you had those powers than
he. The man is a maniac. Make him
talk!”

“Yes, yes, of course.” St. George raised
his hand, but Downing’s shout stopped
him.

“Don’t return him to human form! The
serpent will merely vanish, and Jamison
will return to his body at my cabin. He’ll

have time to get set, and when you do
find him, he may win. You’ve got to get
down to him to make him talk!”

St. George almost sizzled with rage.
He kicked at the black snake, cursed it
and then raised his hand to make the
sign of transformation. His body stiff¬
ened. On the floor a huge black serpent
wriggled toward the smaller snake.

AMISON’S voice hissed from the
smaller serpent. “St. George, you
idiot! We’re trapped—both of us! Con¬
demned to live out our lives as snakes.
Oh, I should have known Downing meant
to trick you!”

“What do you mean?” the black snake
asked, suddenly horribly frightened.

“Stupid dolt. You must make the sign
to convert yourself back into your hu¬
man form. It takes an arm or a paw to do
it. You’ve nothing but scales. Motion¬
ing with the body itself won’t work. St.
George, you defeated yourself. You
can’t go back.”

The black snake went mad. It reared
up, its red tongue flicking furiously. It
writhed toward a chair, climbed onto it
and reared up again until it was twined
around the machine. It kept moving un¬
till its thick, glistening body was lashed
about the great tube. The coils began to
constrict, tightening convulsively. Glass
cracked. There was an explosion. Flame
shot out. Purple flame that turned into
a crimson jet. Smoke filled the room,
fire started lapping at the furniture.

Downing braced himself. Mounting
flames gushed toward him as he raised
the chair from the floor and brought it
down with all the strength he could mus¬
ter. A dozen trials shattered the legs
and the back, precipitating him to the
floor. He wrenched himself free, dived
headlong into the fury of flame and
smoke.

There was little left of the giant ser¬
pent. He saw the smaller snake in a
corner, facing the fire that crept toward
it. Downing found a knife. In a mo¬
ment, Pamela was free.

They opened the door and the result¬
ant draft fanned the flames 'into horrible
fury. They shot out like giant tongues

THE GREAT EGO

at everything within reach. The two
humans fled to the stairs. Before they
reached the first floor, the fire burst
through. Curtains and rugs went up
like so much tinder.

They raced to the front door, got it
open somehow. Moments later, they
stood well down the street. Pamela
clung to Downing tightly, sobbing
hysterically. They watched the evil
house being consumed, before the fire
department could get there.

“That’s the end of St. George, of Dr.
Jamison—and the cats,” Downing said
slowly. “I would have rescued the cats
but it was impossible. Perhaps they are
better off.”

“Jim,” Pamela said. “That scroll. How
did St. George make such a mistake? It
was the one he sent me to look for.”

“No, darling. I contacted the museum
curator and told him an attempt would
be made to steal the scroll. I warned him
to substitute another for it. The scroll
still exists, but no one can learn its sec¬
ret. That died with the two serpents in
there. St. George wrecked his machine
so no one else could use it. He played
right into our hands. He and Jamison
are dead — as snakes. What could be
more fitting?”

Pamela shivered.

“Take me home, Jim. Please take me
home.”

COMING NEXT ISSUE

STRANGERS ON THE HEIGHTS

An Astounding Complete Novel

By MANLY WADE WELLMAN

He saw the canals as they were of old, as the Chronicles described them

CANAL

By CARBL JACOBI

Ex-clerk Kramer Flees Along the Grand Lanai on Mars, Dodging
Deadly Dangers, in a Frantic Race for Fame and Wealth!

JBkT THE top of the stairs Kramer
stood still a long moment, listen*
ing. The road behind him was
empty and desolate, stretching off into
the red-rimmed horizon like a crayon
streak on a piece of cardboard. Up
above in the dry motionless air a lone
Kiloto wheeled and soared, searching for
prey. There was no sign of pursuit.

Mentally Kramer checked over his
equipment: canteen, food concentrate

envelope, sand mask, and most precious
of all, the map. The official Martian
Cartographic Folio 654, direct from its
glass case in the FaGanda Bureau of
Standards. The map still lay in its oil¬
skin pouch, and the archaic printing
thrilled him as he stared down upon it.

It was Monday morning, 11:14 Earth
time; he checked with his watch. In ex¬
actly eleven days, assuming all went
well, he should be entering Canal 28

CANAL

Northwest and coming down the home¬
stretch. After that it would be easy.
His forged passports would give him
easy access to the Crater City port. The
regular Earth Express would take off at
high noon. Not even Blanchard would
suspect him of escaping in this direction.
Since Kramer had first conceived the
plan a month ago, he had studied each
detail, accounted for each contingency,
and everything had worked like clock¬
work.

He began to descend the steps, ab¬
sently counting them as he went down:
fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight. Level
One. Here the first sign, almost illeg¬
ible from age, met his gaze:

IT IS ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDEN
TO ENTER THESE CANALS.

BY ORDER OF
ZARA

It seemed strange seeing that name,
Zara, there out of a history book. The
last Martian monarchy had passed on
into the limbo ages ago. And Kramer
remembered that even during the last
three—or was it four?—dynasties the
canals had been cloesd.

4ffcNE twenty-eight, one twenty-nine.

Third, fourth, fifth level. Kramer
drew up before a massive door, fashioned
of arelium steel. A second sign stood
out mockingly in the light of his torch:

IT IS ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDEN . . .

Without hesitation he reached into
his pocket and drew forth a key. He re¬
moved the royal seal with the utmost
care, inserted the key in the lock and
twisted. The door swung open slowly
of its own accord.

Even then with virtual success just
within his grasp, he did not forget him¬
self. He replaced the seal in such a way
that the closed door would show no signs
of passage. Then he broke into a low
laugh.

There it was—Canal Grand, the mas¬
ter artery that linked North Mars with
South Mars, the single avenue that
crossed the Void, and offered a possible

means of escape. No Earth men, no liv¬
ing Martian had ever penetrated the
Void and returned. Planes, expeditions,
rocket ships had taken off time and time
again, only to disappear without trace.
In their wake superstition had flowered,
rumor had multiplied, until today the
Void stood, a chasm of isolation, effec¬
tually slicing the red planet into two
parts.

Kramer strode boldly forward, Warm
and comfortable in his space suit and
hextar helmet. For the first twenty
yards alluvial drift impeded his prog¬
ress, and he swore to himself as he
thought of his early schooling that had
taught him there was no wind on Mars.
Then he reached the hard-paced center
of the canal, and the ground here was
firm and level as a pavement.

The frowning walls, towering sheer on
either side, were as oppressive as a tun¬
nel at first. The geometric desolation
fatigued the eye. But after he had gone
a mile Kramer swung along rapidly, im¬
mune to these irritations.

Queer how things worked out in one’s
life. A month ago he had been an or¬
dinary salvage ratio clerk at the Metro¬
politan Power Unit in FaGanda. His
life had been routine, with only a few
petty thieveries and unimportant swin-
dlings to break the monotony. Then,
quite by accident, he had hit upon the
plan.

The plan had as its nucleus the secret
of the Void which had baffled mankind
for so many years. In 3091 the historian,
Stola, had written:

I am convinced that the great catastrophe
which caused the complete dehydration of the
canals and began the rapid decline of the early
Martians under the monarchy is linked in
some unexplainable way with that corridor
which we know today as the Void.

We know of a certainty that Canal Grand
was unquestionably the only passage which
crossed that corridor even in those early
times, and we know by spectroscopic analysis
that somewhere along that canal lies a deposit
of retnite, now catalogued as Chemical X.
Since Chemical X is the most desired thing
by Earthmen today, there is no doubt in my
mind but that eventually the lode will be
tapped and the mysteries of the Void ex¬
plored.

Stola had written that, and he had

STARTLING STORIES

been conservative. In the entire Sys¬
tem, Kramer knew, there were but four¬
teen kilograms of retnite known to ex¬
ist. That was reserved for the nine
members of the Interplanetary Council
and their elected successors.

But retnite was in reality nothing
more than a drug, a mental stimulant
which, when taken correctly, could am¬
plify the thought processes of the brain
a thousandfold.

A RETNITER carried with ease, not
only the heritage of his ancestors
but viewed the panorama of life intelli¬
gently. A retniter, in other words, was
a super intellect,

Kramer wanted that elixir. He wanted
it because it would open the door for
him to success. No more petty swin-
dlings then, no more trickster schemes
with constant fear of the police. He
could tell Blanchard and the law to go
to blazes.

Inside his helmet he pressed his chin
against a stud, and automatically a Mar¬
tian cheroot dropped out of a rack and
slipped between his lips. A tiny heat
unit swung over to ignite it, and the ex¬
haust valve behind his neck increased
its pulsations to expel the smoke. He
walked on . . .

Kramer’s introduction to the plan had
come about in an odd way. In a small
curio shop in FaGanda he had purchased
an old vase, marked with a mixture of
curious hieroglyphics on one side and
some doggerel Martian verse on the
other. Now Kramer was no student of
languages, but in order to quicken his
wits he had frequently pored over early
Martian.

He was astounded to discover that the
hieroglyphics and the verse keyed the
two languages and offered the first trans¬
lation of the ancient parchments in the
Bureau of Standards.

The rest was a matter of detail. Kra¬
mer had managed to hide in the gallery
at night. Alone, behind locked doors,
he had selected one folio of the hundred
and twenty-six in the glass cases. It
was that one, he knew, which held the
secret of the Void.

There remained then but one thing to
do. Horn Valla, the Martian philolo¬
gist, must be removed. Horn Valla had
announced only recently that, after years
of study, he was finally on the verge of
deciphering early Martian and the fo¬
lios.

Kramer had taken his time. He waited
until Horn Valla was known to be leav¬
ing on a trip up-country. Then he had
entered his apartment, fired one shot
with a heat gun and fed the body into
the city’s refuse tubes.

Blanchard? Yes, Blanchard would
probably couple the three details: the
stolen folio, the death of/Hom Valla, and
Kramer’s disappearance. But it would
take time, and during that time Kramer
would be increasing the distance be¬
tween himself and the law.

He began to study the canal as he
paced along. Straight as a knife blade,
it stretched before him to the vanishing
point. The walls were sheer, dug out of
the red rock by a means that so far had
baffled archaeologists. Three-quarters of
the way up he could see a series of darker
serrated lines, and he knew these were
the ancient water marks.

How many hundreds of explorers had
started this way, hoping to penetrate the
secret of the Void, only to disappear
completely. And what was the Void?
If it held retnite at its core, what power
did it wield to entrap all trespassers?

The stolen folio in this respect had
been oddly disappointing. It had
charted the location of the lode, in such
a way that only a person able to decipher
ancient Martian could read it. It had
mapped a route through the labyrinth of
canals, but it had made no mention of
the mystery that lay ahead.

At noon, by his Earth watch, Kramer
halted for a rest. After a half hour he
set off again, walking at that same me¬
chanical pace that ate up the miles.

The red ditch faded out of his
thoughts now. He saw the canals as
they were of old, as the Chronicles had
described them. Luxurious waterways
clogged with commercial shipping, with
tapestried gondolas and canopied barges.
He saw the gigantic locks and the way

CANAL

stations where swashbuckling pilots
drank genith and watched South Martian
girls writhe and sway to the rhythm of
the Ucatel drums.

I T WAS at that moment that preceded
the sudden advance of night that
Kramer found himself rudely torn back
to reality. He had kept his visa set
turned on, and now a low magnetic hum
told him that its finder was in oper¬
ation. The vision plate above his eyes
began to glow with a dull light.

Abruptly a violent shock swept
through him!

In the plate he saw a section of red
wall and the huge studded entrance door
through which he had recently passed.
As he watched, that door opened, and a
man appeared clad in a space suit.
Through the crystal helmet his features
revealed themselves clearly. It was
Blanchard!

The I.P. man was on his hands and
knees, examining the sand on the floor
of the canal. Presently he straight¬
ened and began to stride forward rapid¬
ly-

Kramer swore. Only a few hours had
elapsed since he had dispatched Horn
Valla. How could Blanchard possibly
have picked up the trail so quickly?
In some way he, Kramer, must have
erred, must have left a clue.

For a moment panic swept over the
former salvage ratio clerk. Then quickly
he was in control of himself again. He
lay down on the sand, swallowed a few
food concentrate pellets and in a moment
was asleep.

Awakening before dawn, he pushed
on again in the darkness. But with the
coming of the sun the first of the three
quanthrows swooped down to attack
him.

The quanthrows were far south for
this time of year, but their ferocity was
no less great. Strangely resembling
sword fish, but with octagon-shaped
heads and curious square wingspreads,
they wheeled out of the saffron sky with
rasping squawks that vibrated the ear¬
phones in Kramer’s helmet.

He killed the first with a single shot.

managed to wound fatally the second
with a double charge from his heat pis¬
tol. The third, a colossus of avian
strength shot toward him, its steel-like
proboscis thrust straight for his throat.

Kramer escaped the murderous attack
by inches. Even so, before he could
whip out his knife and jam it upward,
the “sword” penetrated his suit and bit
deep in his shoulder.

Breathing hard, he stood there look¬
ing down at the three lifeless bodies.
And then, with that sudden clarity which
physical action always brought him, Kra-
thought of something.

If there were three quanthrows, there
must be ninety-seven more close by. It
was one of the peculiarities of this
creature to travel always in flocks of a
hundred. Also—and here in spite of the
pain in his shoulder, Kramer permitted
himself to indulge in a broad smile, the
one thing which would attract a quan-
throw was salt.

In an instant he was ripping open
his haversack, pouring the white crystals
on the three dead bodies.

With their strange clannishness, the
quanthrows would miss these members
of their flock shortly and would return
to investigate their absence. When they
found the salt they would linger there
for hours. And Blanchard . . . !

“That damned sneak will find out he
bit off more than he can chew this time,”
Kramer muttered. He walked on again
with new vigor.

The sword cut in his suit was easily
repaired. Duoresilient tape fixed that.
To his dismay, however, Kramer found
that the attack by the quanthrows had
damaged the delicate wiring of his visa
set. Several times he switched it on,
expecting to see the oncoming Blanch¬
ard. But the vision plate remained
blurred.

At nightfall of the second day he
reached the first way station. Stumbling
in the doorless cubicle, Kramer threw
himself prone on the debris-covered
floor, panting with exhaustion.

Here at least he could rest a while, free
from the incredible dangers of this
world.

STARTLING STORIES

PfpHE cubicle ages ago had housed the
air filtration apparatus and heat con¬
trol units of the way station. This
machinery had weathered to a pile of
oxidized metal. But In a hermetically
sealed cabinet mounted on one wall Kra¬
mer found a spanner glass still in usable
operation.

He pursed his lips in satisfaction,
quickly transferred the battery connec¬
tions of his suit to the device and
tripped over the vernier.

For a long moment the cracked screen
showed a blank surface. Then, with an
oath, Kramer drove his clenched fist into
the panel, shattering pintax tubes in a
shower of fragments.

He had seen enough. Clearly outlined
in the screen the figure of Blanchard
could be seen, plodding doggedly
through the sand.

Kramer dropped into a ruined settee
and chinned the stud feeding a lighted
cheroot to his lips. He inhaled the rank
smoke savagely.

“The dirty, miserable hound. How in
the name of all eternal did he get by
those quanthrows?”

He spat the cigarette out the exhaust
valve trap. “Okay, wise guy. You asked
for it. Now you’re goin’ to get it.”

He stood up and began a careful sur¬
vey of the cubicle’s interior. Nothing
at all which might serve to entrap the
oncoming I.P. man. Kramer went out¬
side and began to pace along the short
narrow street.

On the right was the matrilated dome
where canaleers passed the night so long
ago. On the left stood the remnants
of the harthode tower where first, sec¬
ond and third Monarchy Martian dis¬
patchers had poured over their charts
and lock controls, guiding the network
of traffic in and out of Canal Grand.

The last structure was still in fairly
good preservation. It was a canalserai,
and Kramer’s heart leaped as his gaze
took it in. Even pilots in those days
had not lacked for entertainment. This
was their pleasure palace where gam¬
bling and dancing had taken place.

The door to this building had long
since vanished and five feet over the

threshold was a small mound of drifted
sand. Inside, however, Kramer found
the rarified air had kept things in fairly
good trim.

The long demdem bar still stood be¬
fore one wall. Farther on he saw the
little alcoves where incoming polits had
drowsed under the effect of the forbid¬
den electro-hypnotic machines.

The dismantled parts of one of these
machines still stood in a corner, and he
paused to examine it. Self applied hyp¬
nosis was one of the accomplishments
of the early Martians. This device was
simple. It consisted of two prism¬
shaped pieces of translucent metal,
mounted on brackets in front of a many-
side panel of refracto-glass. Seated be¬
fore the instrument, under a powerful
ato-light, the imbiber found his gaze
drawn toward a single perspective,
where the reflection of his own eyes
was transmitted back to him.

Abruptly Kramer seized the instru¬
ment and carried it to the doorway of
the room, scooped the drifted sand into
a higher mound, and placed the machine
upon it.

Directly above a stone girder hung
precariously, balanced by the jammed
key stone in the archway. Kramer dug
toe holes in the crumbling masonry,
mounted to that key stone and loosened
it with his knife blade. An instant later
only a few chips of stone kept the mas¬
sive girder from plunging downward.

Back on the floor level again, he
whipped out his electric stylus and wrote
the following words across the refracto-
glass panel:

Blanchard: I know you’re after me, but our
trails part here. If you want to know which
canal I’ve taken, the secret lies in the glass.

||E SIGNED his name and smiled
quietly. It was a rather compli¬
cated trap, but if he knew the I.P. man,
it was a good one. Blanchard would
enter here, searching for clues. He
would see the hypnosis machine, and
he would read the message.

From the moment he looked into the
refracto glass, the machine would begin
its spell. Blanchard would be lulled into

CANAL

a quick, deep sleep, and as he slumped
backward against the wall, the dislodged
girder above would complete the story.

Five minor canals angled off Canal
Grand at this way station. But Kramer’s
original plan of taking one of these to
throw his pursuer off the track was gone
now. Sure of himself, he continued al¬
most light-heartedly down Canal Grand.

As he went on, he worked at the
wiring of his visa set. Once he got it
in partial operation, but then it blurred
again, and refused to respond to the
controls. The pain in his shoulder was
a dull throb now; his whole arm felt
numb and feverish, and there was a
growing lump in the gland under his
armpit.

By noon he was aware of a subtle
change in the scene about him. The
canal’s walls seemed to draw closer to¬
gether and become deeper. The sides
of the great ditch took on a deeper
brownish red hue that caught the glare
of the sun and refracted it back into
his eyeballs.

Abruptly Kramer halted, staring with
wide-open eyes. A quarter mile ahead
a large black mound barred his path.

Rocks! As he drew nearer he could
see the outlines of gargantuan boulders
piled high in a grotesque cairn. But
how had they come here? They had not
rolled down from the top of the canal,
for no whim of nature could have con¬
structed such a regular formation.

Kramer approached with caution.
Twenty yards away he stopped again,
and a wave of fear swept over him.
There was something curiously life-like
about those stones. He received the im¬
pression they were watching him with
unseen eyes.

Then suppressing the scream which
arose in his throat, he turned and ran.
Simultaneously he looked over his shoul¬
der, and an incredible sight met his eyes.

The “stones” had left their mound
and were now deploying over the hard-
packed ground and slowly, but unmis¬
takably, pursuing him.

Not until that moment did Kramer
realize what he had blundered into. They
were the horrors of the canals—the

kanal-bras, Mars’ link between organic
and inorganic life.

At first he outdistanced them easily.
Then, as they increased their locomo¬
tion, he seemed to be running on a
treadmill with painted scenery unrolling
on either side. The kanal-bras came on
with no apparent effort, gliding across
the surface of the sand as if they
weighed nothing at all. Looking back,
Kramer thought he could see cavernous
mouths and multiple eyes.

He understood their purpose. They
were inorganic, yes, but they were also
omnivorous. That is, feeding on organic
matter, they permitted that matter to
adhere to their surfaces and slowly pet¬
rify like a coal deposit.

They were close upon him now. Kra¬
mer’s breath was searing his lungs, and
he could hear the exhaust valve in the
back of his helmet rattle open and shut
like a shuttlecock.

And then once again his reading back¬
ground came to the aid of the former
salvage ratio clerk. Somewhere he re¬
membered that a kanal-bra reacted to
sub-sonic vibrations. They alone could
penetrate their metal-stone bodies.

He had no vibrator, but he did have
his heat pistol. Frantically he clawed
the weapon out of its holster and twisted
the control stud to its farthest marking.
From a heat ray to an infra-red ray to a
sub-sonic ray was but a step. He turned
and fired.

E VEN then he was not prepared for
the results. As the single blast
pulsed out of the barrel, the kanal-bras
lost their forward momentum and halted.
Like a slow motion camera turned back¬
ward, they slowly retreated across the
sand. Reaching their former position,
they mounted one upon the other, until
they formed the identical mound Kra¬
mer had seen before.

He stood still a long moment, staring
in amazement. Then boldly he tried an
experiment. The heat pistol was of the
latest Gan-Larkington type, and the tiny
rheostat was capable of controlling vi¬
brations almost the entire breadth of the
vibratory scale. Super-sonic charges,

STARTLING STORIES

though rare with most weapons, were
included in the Gan-Larkington.

If a sub-sonic charge would thus stul¬
tify the kanal-bras would not a super¬
sonic or ultra-sonic wave tend to release
them?

Kramer tried it. He adjusted the
weapon, fired a shot and saw the stony
creatures immediately erupt into life. A
sub-sonic blast sent them returning in
that curious retrogressive action to their
former position.

He smoked a cigarette over the dis¬
covery. A quarter of an hour later he
had set his third trap. Beyond a doubt
there wasn’t the slightest need for it.
But with the stakes he had, there was
no use taking chances.

He buried the heat gun in the sand,
leaving only the barrel and the trigger
exposed. He stretched a cord tightly
for twenty yards across the canal floor,
connecting one end to the trigger. The
barrel he aimed directly at the motion¬
less kanal-bras.

“Now,” he muttered, “if that snoopy
Blanchard does get by the way station,
he’ll get a surprise. All you need, these
days, is brains.”

With a quick step he skirted the liv¬
ing rock cairn and headed down the
canal.

Within a quarter mile he found it
necessary to consult the stolen map. And
a mile farther on found him clutching
the folio in one hand, gazing at it con¬
stantly as he walked.

At intervals of every few hundred
yards other tributary canals branched off
the main stem. Some of these were
equally as large and impressive as Canal
Grand, and shortly it dawned upon Kra¬
mer that he might be—probably was—
lost.

The map was clearly enough marked,
but apparently new waterways had been
dug since those ancient cartographers
had penned the manuscript. Kramer
swore but did not slow his pace. He still
had his magno compass. He might wan¬
der off the main artery, but sooner or
later he should be able to place his posi¬
tion and swing back into it.

Faded hieroglyphics began to make

their appearance now, stenciled deeply
in colossal letters above the water marks
on the canal’s sides. Some of them were
undecipherable. Others, Kramer tried
to ease his growing tension, by translat¬
ing.

“Praise to Zara,” one of them read. An¬
other: “Calthedra five hundred legaros.”
There was one in larger marking that
caused Kramer to knit his brows in puz¬
zlement. Translated freely, it read: “Be¬
ware of the Echo.”

He forgot the hieroglyphics abruptly
when he tripped over a heavier mound of
sand and fell sprawling. The sudden
shock did something to his visa set. It
crackled, hummed, began operation, then
went dead again.

But that momentary glimpse in the
vision plate was enough. Kramer had
seen Blanchard plodding forward relent¬
lessly through the drifted sand. He had
safely passed both traps.

Was there no stopping the man?

“Blast his rotten soul!” Kramer
lurched to his feet and began to walk
at a faster pace, though the pain in his
shoulder had increased a hundredfold.

H E NOTICED now that the red
banks of the canal had given way
to a kind of lustreless, metallic wall.
Slate gray in color, they towered even
higher than before, and they seemed to
converge at the top like a tunnel. Si¬
multaneously he felt a cloud of mental
uneasiness sweep over him, accompanied
by an overpowering desire to break the
brooding oppressive silence.

Twenty yards forward, and that de¬
sire had become maddening. The utter
quiet pressed against his ears. It seemed
he would scream if he could not make
some sound. Against his will he found
his steps drawn toward the nearer wall.
And here, like a crazed man, he seized
a heavy rock fragment and began dash¬
ing it again and again against the me¬
tallic bank.

He could feel the snapping recoil as
the blow traveled up his arm. The hum
in his headset told him there was noth¬
ing wrong with his audiphone.

But the blows produced no sound.

CANAL

It was as if he had struck a mallet into
a pile of cotton. And then he went rigid.
Out of the corner of his eye he had seen
something leap up from the rock frag¬
ment even as he hit it and race outward
across the canal with incredible speed.
A shadow, it seemed to be, and yet a
shadow that possessed a certain minia¬
ture form with moving ghost legs and
arms and a tiny button knob that might
have been a head.

Again he struck the rock and again a
shadow leaped up and sped away. An
instant later Kramer threw himself flat
upon the sand, groveling in agony. The
shadows, a dozen of them, had formed a
phalanx at the opposite wall of the ca¬
nal, an elliptic cordon, and had raced
back upon him.

As they came, they carried the de¬
layed sounds of Kramer’s blows upon
the stone.

Delayed, but multiplied and amplified
a thousand times. The concentrated roar
was agonizing. Vainly he thumbed the
switch, disconnecting the headset. But
the vibration pulsed relentlessly through
the space suit and hextar helmet. He
thought he felt the shadow bodies leap¬
ing upon him, striking his skull with
tiny invisible hammers.

Were they sound shadows, some mix¬
ture of light and sound waves possessing
the ability to travel through space and
time, a mutant echo that had the domi¬
nant characteristics of living matter?

Or was the whole thing a vagary of
his brain, the result of a mounting fever
from his infected arm? He did not know.

Kramer sat there a long time, mulling
over the situation, as the vibration finally
ceased. He wondered if there were any
possibility of using the phenomena as a
trap. A last and final trap that would
forestall Blanchard for once and for
all.

But he had no time for further
thought. His gaze had turned idly to
that length of canal down which he had
just passed. And far off, almost at the
limit of his vision, he saw something
which made his mouth suddenly fall
slack.

A man was toiling through the sand,

slowly advancing toward him. Blan¬
chard!

Leaping to his feet, he raced away,
fleeing madly at top speed, to the limit
of his powers. Nor, thereafter, did he
relax for an instant his frenzied efforts
to escape.

Six days later Kramer entered the last
lap of his trek. He knew it was the last
lap because the way station at the con¬
fluence of the two mighty canals was
clearly marked and described on the
map. Any moment now he should be
sighting the cavern mouth that led to
the retnite deposit.

After that his worries would be over.
He would extract a quantity of the de¬
posit—the folio gave a detailed account
of the method to obtain and purify it.
He would swing into Canal 28 North¬
west and manage somehow to reach
Crater City. Blanchard was close on his
heels, yes. But in some way he would
take care of Blanchard.

G IVE him a year then—six months,
and success would be his. The
mental doors that would be flung open
to him would eliminate all necessity of
subsistence worry, and the law would
be a trivial thing which he could dis¬
pense with as a cat does a mouse.

Remained only one item unanswered
—the Void. Since he had entered Canal
Grand, Kramer had tried to put that
mystery out of his thoughts. It had per¬
sisted, however, and now that he was
nearing his goal, he thought about it
more and more.

It lay ahead somewhere, a gulf which
he must cross. Not until he had reached
it would he know the answer.

He began to study the canal sides
now with care. The hieroglyphics had
long since disappeared, and there was
utterly no sign of life.

All that long Martian day he walked
steadily onward. His throat was dry;
his arm and shoulder felt strange and
numb like alien parts of his body; at
intervals reddish spots danced before his
eyes.

At three o’clock by his Earth watch
Kramer was startled to see the left canal

STARTLING STORIES

wall swing outward on a tangent, form¬
ing a vast ellipse before him. Simul¬
taneously the sand floor began to de¬
scend, deeper and deeper, until he could
no longer discern the tops of the banks.

An hour later a cry of amazement es¬
caped his lips.

Scattered across the canal floor a quar¬
ter mile ahead was an array of incredible
objects. He saw modern rocket ships;
he saw thirtieth century stepto planes
with their curious elongated wing ex¬
haust jets. All of them lay there in the
oppressive silence, conning doors open
as if their crews had left only a moment
before and would shortly return.

But as he passed them at closer range,
he saw, too, that they had been there a
long time. The bulls were half buried
in the sand. The glassite ports were
yellowish and opaque with the peculiar
dull hue brought about by long exposure
to the Martaian atmosphere.

There were some twenty ships of types
and manufacture he recognized. One of
them was the ill-fated Goliath, whose
disappearance, he vaguely remembered,
had caused a furore when he was a child.
Older vessels loomed as he walked on,
some of them antedating the ancient
models he had seen in his history books.

Kramer did not have to be told that
this was the end of the trail for these
ships. They too had come this far, hop¬
ing to probe the Void. But what had be¬
come of their crews? Why had they not
returned?

He passed the last vessel at length and
reached a point where the view before
him was unrestricted. Here he halted,
oppressed by an inner sense of unease.
He drew out the oil skin pouch and be¬
gan a close survey of the folio.

Almost at once a cry of triumph came
to his lips. It seemed queer he had not
noticed it before, but this widening point
of the canal was marked on the map.
More than that, the map also showed the
retnite deposit to lay in the center of the
huge bowl.

Two trails leading to the lode were
shown. One of them a narrow, round¬
about route was marked with a dotted
line. The other trail, larger, shorter

bore two words in early Martian at its
entrance. A-krey menarga, it read.

Kramer stood up and walked a hun¬
dred yards east. He saw no trail. Noth¬
ing but trackless sand. And then ab¬
ruptly, as he turned his eyes slightly up¬
ward, he did see it.

Extending before him was a narrow
corridor where the sand floor somehow
seemed tilted at a different angle and
where the atmosphere bore a curious
glazed effect, as if he were looking
through a double thickness of glass.
Also, he thought he saw a row of black
spots, like a dotted line, stretching into
space before him.

THTSUT even at that moment with suc-
cess at his finger tips, Kramer did
not forget himself—or Blanchard. Two
trails were marked on the map, this one
and another farther on. He threw the
map to the sand, grinding it under his
heel to give the impression it had been
dropped there accidentally.

Then he continued walking east. And
shortly afterward his efforts were re¬
warded. The second trail was larger,
more inviting. A stone floor stretched
out before him across the sand. But
here, too, he received the impression he
was looking at it through imperfect
plates of glass.

Without hesitation Kramer swung
into it. Almost at once he had a feel¬
ing of exhilaration, of mental buoyancy.
Mingled with it was a feeling that the
way behind him was closing up.

The stone floorway led up. And that
was odd. For Kramer could have sworn
that the sand bowl was flat as a vast die.
As he went on, however, he thought less
about his surroundings and more about
the stolen folio.

A-krey menarga? What did those
words mean? Menar he knew, was an
early Martian prefix, meaning bent or
twisted. And the only logical defini¬
tion of krey was space.

Kramer stopped while an icy chill
crawled up his spine. Into the space
warp! ... Of course, that was what the
secret of the Void was. A space warp
would account for everything: the eter-

CANAL

nal division of North and South Mars,
the disappearance of the various expe¬
ditions, the dehydration of the canals.
It meant that another world—another
dimension—was impinged at this point
and whoever blundered into it would be
lost forever!

Quite slowly Kramer began to walk
again.

He forced his eyes ahead where
the usual perspective was supplanted by
a jumble of angles, tilted ellipses and
quadrants. But at length he could stand
it no longer, and he turned.

Nothing! There was nothing behind
him at all. Only the way ahead, stretch¬
ing like a forsaken causeway into meas¬
ureless distances.

THE BIRTH OE A NEW PLANET!

Curtis Newton and the Futuremen plan to make Solar history by con¬
structing a brand new planet between the orbits of Earth
and Mars—in the amazing book-length novel

DAYS OF CREATION

By BRETT STERLING

Coming in the Spring issue of our companion magazine
CAPTAIN FUTURE—on sale everywhere, 15c per issue

PONT BE CHEEK/) fVHy NOT?

M/ster! / shave w/m

-v STAR BLADES'

THE POINT OE VIEW

A Scientifiction Hall of Fame Story Featuring
Hasket Van Manderpootz, Scientist Extraordinary!

!*>*'■' AM too modest!”

snapped the great
Hasket van Mander¬
pootz, pacing irritably
about the limited area of
his private laboratory,
glaring at me the while.
“That is the trouble. I
undervalue my own
achievements, and there¬
by permit petty imitators
like Corveille to influ¬
ence the committee and
win the Morell prize.”
“But,” I said soothing¬
ly, “you’ve won the Morell physics award
half a dozen times, Professor. They can’t
very well give it to you every year.”

“Why not, since it is plain that I deserve
it?” bristled the professor. “Understand,
Dixon, that I do not regret my modesty, even
though it permits conceited fools like Cor¬
veille, who have infinitely less reason than I
for conceit, to win awards that mean nothing
save prizes for successful bragging. Bah! To
grant an award for research along such ob¬
vious lines that I neglected to mention them,
thinking that even a Morell judge would ap¬
preciate their obviousness! Research on the
psychon, eh! Who discovered the psychon?
Who but van Manderpootz?”

“Wasn’t that what you got last year’s award
for?” I asked consolingly. “And after all,
isn’t this modesty, this lack of jealousy on
your part, a symbol of greatness of char¬
acter?”

“True—true!” said the great van Mander¬
pootz, mollified. “Had such an affront been
committed against a lesser man than myself,
he would doubtless have entered a bitter
complaint against the judges. But not I. Any¬
way, I know from experience that it wouldn’t
do any good. And besides, despite his great¬
ness, van Manderpootz is as modest and
shrinking as a violet.” At this point he
paused, and his broad red face tried to look
violet-like.

I suppressed a smile. I knew the eccentric
genius of old, from the days when I had been
Dixon Wells, undergraduate student of en¬
gineering, and had taken a course in Newer
Physics—that is, in Relativity—under the
famous professor. For some unguessable rea¬
son, he had taken a fancy to me, and as a
result I had been involved in several of his
experiments since graduation.

T HERE was the affair of the subjuncti-
visor, for instance, and also that of the
idealizator. In the first of these episodes I
had suffered the indignity of falling in love
with a girl two weeks after she was apparent¬
ly dead, and in the second, the equal or
greater indignity of falling in love with a

girl who didn’t exist, never had existed, and
never would exist—in other words, with an
ideal.

Perhaps I’m a little susceptible to feminine
charms, or rather, perhaps I used to be. For
since the disaster of the idealizator, I had
sworn grimly to relegate such follies to the
past, much to the disgust of various ’vision
entertainers, singers, dancers, and the like.

So of late I had been spending my days
seriously, trying wholeheartedly to get to the
office on time just once, so that I could refer
to it next time my father accused me of never
getting anywhere on time. I hadn’t succeeded
yet, but fortunately the N. J. Wells Corpora¬
tion was wealthy enough to survive even
without the full-time services of Dixon
Wells. Or should I say even with them?

Anyway, I’m sure my father preferred to
have me late in the morning after an evening
with van Manderpootz than after one with
“Tips” Alva or “Whimsy” White, or one of
the numerous others of the ladies of the ’vi¬
sion screen. Even in the late twenty-first
century, he retained a lot of old-fashioned
ideas.

Van Manderpootz had ceased to remem¬
ber that he was as modest and shrinking as a
violet.

“It has just occurred to me,” he announced

EDITOR'S NOTE

M OST science-fic¬
tion fans will
agree that van Man¬
derpootz is the great¬
est scientist that ever
lived, that is living,
and that ever could
live. If you are ac¬
quainted with Stanley S. Weinbaum's famous
stories, "The Worlds of If" and "The Ideal"
you are familiar with van Manderpootz's unique
forms of experimentation.

We find him here again with another brain¬
storm, the "attitudinizor," and what it does
and how it works will astound you. Only van
Manderpootz could have thought up such a
thing!

Because this story, "The Point of View," by
the late Stanley S. Weinbaum, has stood the
test of time, it has been nominated for
SCIENTIFICTION'S HALL OF FAME and is
reprinted here.

Nominate your own favoritesl Send your
vote to The Editor, STARTLING STORIES,
10 East 40th St., New York 16, N. Y.

STANLEY G» WEINEAUM

impressively, “that years have character
much as humans have. This year. Two Thou¬
sand Fifteen, will be remembered in history
as a stupid year, in which the Morell prize
was given to a nincompoop. Last year, on
the other hand, was an intelligent year, a
jewel in the crown of civilization. Not only
was the Morell prize given to van Mander-
pootz, but I announced my discrete field
theory in that year, and the University un¬
veiled Cogli’s statue of me as well.” He

sighed. “Yes, a very intelligent year! What
do you think?”

“It depends on how you look at it.” I re¬
sponded glumly. “I didn’t enjoy it so much,
what with Joanna Caldwell and Denise
d’Agrion, and your infernal experiments. It’s
all in the point of view.”

The professor snorted. “Infernal experi¬
ments, eh! Point of view! Of course it’s all
in the point of view. Even Einstein’s simple
little synthesis was enough to prove that. If

STARTLING STORIES

the whole world could adopt an intelligent
and admirable point of view—that of van
Manderpootz, for instance—all troubles
would be over. If it were possible—” He
paused, and an expression of amazed wonder
spread over his ruddy face.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Matter? I am astonished! The astound¬
ing depths of genius awe me. I am over¬
whelmed with admiration at the incalculable
mysteries of a great mind.”

“I don’t get the drift.”

“Dixon,” he said impressively, “you have
been privileged to look upon an example of
the workings of genius. More than that, you
have planted the seed from which perhaps
shall grow the towering tree of thought. In¬
credible as it seems, you, Dixon Wells, have
given van Manderpootz an idea! It is thus
that genius seizes upon the small, the unim¬
portant, the negligible, and turns it to its own
grand purposes. I stand awe-struck!”

“But what—”

“Wait,” said van Manderpootz, still in rapt
admiration of the majesty of his own mind.
“When the tree bears fruit, you shall see it.
Until then, be satisfied that you have played
a part in its planting.”

I T WAS perhaps a month before I saw van
Manderpootz again, but one bright spring
evening his broad, rubicund face looked out
of the phone-screen at me.

“It’s ready,” he announced impressively.
“What is?”

The professor looked pained at the thought
that I could have forgotten.

“The tree has borne fruit,” he explained.
“If you wish to drop over to my quarters,
we’ll proceed to the laboratory and try it
out. I do not set a time, so that it will be
utterly impossible for you to be late.”

I ignored that last dig, but had a time been
set, I would doubtless have been even later
than usual, for it was with some misgivings
that I induced myself to go at all. I still re¬
membered the unpleasantness of my last two
experiences with the inventions of van Man¬
derpootz.

However, at last we were seated in the
small laboratory, while out in the larger one
the professor’s technical assistant, Carter,
puttered over some device. In the far corner
his secretary, the plain and unattractive Miss
Fitch, transcribed lecture notes, for van
Manderpootz abhorred the thought that his
golden utterances might be lost to posterity.
On the table between the professor and my¬
self lay a curious device, something that
looked like a cross between a pair of nose-
glasses and a miner’s lamp.

“There it is,” said van Manderpootz
proudly. “There lies my attitudinizor, which
may well become an epoch-making device.”
“How? What does it do?”

“I will explain. The germ of the idea traces
back to that remark of yours about every¬
thing depending on the point of view. A
very obvious statement, of course, but genius
seizes are the obvious and draws from it the
obscure. Thus the thoughts of even the
simplest mind can suggest to the man of
genius his sublime conceptions, as is evident

from the fact that I got this idea from you.”

“What idea?”

“Be patient. There is much you must un¬
derstand first. You must realize just how
true is the statement that everything depends
on the point of view. Einstein proved that
motion, space, and time depend on the par¬
ticular point of view of the observer, or as he
expressed it, on the scale of reference used.
I go farther than that, infinitely farther. 1
propound the theory that the observer is
the point of view. I go even beyond that. I
maintain that the world itself is merely the
point of view!”

“Huh?”

“Look here,” proceeded van Manderpootz.
“It is obvious the world I see is entirely dif¬
ferent from the one in which you live. It is
equally obvious that a strictly religious man
occupies a different world than that of a ma¬
terialist. The fortunate man lives in a happy
world; the unfortunate man sees a world of
misery. One man is happy with little, an¬
other is miserable with much. Each sees the
world from his own point of view, which is
the same as saying that each lives in his own
world. Therefore there are as many worlds
as there are points of view.”

“But,” I objected, “that theory is to dis¬
regard reality. Out of all the different points
of view, there must be one that is right, and
all the rest are wrong.”

“One would think so,” agreed the professor.
“One would think that between the point of
view of you, for instance, as contrasted with
that of, say van Manderpootz, there would be
small doubt as to which was correct. How¬
ever, early in the Twentieth Century, Heisen-
ber enunciated his Principle of Uncertainty,
which proved beyond argument that a com¬
pletely accurate scientific picture of the world
is quite impossible, that the law of cause and
effect is merely a phase of the law of chance,
that no infallible predictions can ever be
made, and that what science used to call na¬
tural laws are really only descriptions of the
way in which the human mind perceives na¬
ture. In other words, the character of the
world depends entirely on the mind observ¬
ing it, or, to return to my earlier statement,
the point of view.” ’

“But no one can ever really understand an¬
other person’s point of view,” I said. “It isn’t
fair to undermine the whole basis of science
because you can’t be sure that the color we
both call red wouldn’t look green to you if
you could see it through my eyes.”

“Ah!” said van Manderpootz triumphantly.
“So we come now to my attitudinizor. Sup¬
pose that it were possible for me to see
through your eyes, or you through mine. Do
you see what a boon such an ability would
be to humanity? Not only from the stand¬
point of science, but also because it would
obviate all troubles due to misunderstand¬
ings. And even more.” Shaking his finger,
the professor recited oracularly, “ ‘Oh, wad
some pow’r the giftie gie us to see oursel’s
as ithers see us.’ Van manderpootz is that
power, Dixon. Through my attitudinizor, one
may at last adopt the viewpoint of another.
The poet’s plaint of more than two cen¬
turies ago is answered at last.”

THE POINT OF VIEW

P UZZLEMENT came to me.

“Now how the devil do you see through
somebody else’s eyes?”

“Very simply. You will recall the idealiza-
tor. Now it is obvious that when I peered
over your shoulder and perceived in the mir¬
ror your conception of the ideal woman, I
was, to a certain extent, adopting your point
of view. In that case the psychons given off
by your mind were converted into quanta of
visible light, which could be seen. In the case
of my attitudinizor, the process is exactly
reversed. One flashes the beam of this light
on the subject whose point of view is desired;
the visible light is reflected back with a cer¬
tain accompaniment of psychons, which are
here intensified to a degree which will permit
them to be, so to speak, appreciated.”
“Psychons?”

“Have you already forgotten my discovery
of the unit particle of thought? Must I ex¬
plain again how the cosmons, chronons, spa-
tions, psychons, and all other particles are
interchangeable? And that,” he continued
abstractedly, “leads to certain interesting
speculations. Suppose I were to convert, say
a ton of material protons and electrons into
spations—that is, convert matter into space.
I calculate that a ton of matter will pro¬
duce approximately a* cubic mile of space.
Now the question is, where would we put it,
since all the space we have is already oc¬
cupied by space? Or if I manufactured an
hour or two of time? It is obvious that we
have no time to fit in an extra couple of
hours, since all our time is already accounted
for. Doubtless it will take a certain amount
of thought for even van Manderpootz to
solve these problems, but at the moment I
am curious to watch the workings of the at¬
titudinizor. Suppose you put it on, Dixon.”.
“I? Haven’t you tried it out yet?”

“Of course not. In the first place, what
has van Manderpootz to gain by studying the
viewpoints of other people? The object of
the device is to permit people to study nobler
viewpoints than their own. And in the second
place, I have asked myself whether it is fair
to the world for van Manderpootz to be the
first to try out a new and possibly untrust¬
worthy device, and I reply, ‘No!’”

“But I should try it out, eh? Well, every
time I try out any of your inventions I find
myself in some kind of trouble. I’d be a fool
to go around looking for more difficulty,
wouldn’t I?”

“I assure you that my viewpoint will be
much less apt to get you into trouble than
your own,” said van Manderpootz with dig¬
nity. “There will be no question of your be¬
coming involved in some impossible love
affair as long as you stick to that.”

Nevertheless, despite the assurance of the
great scientist, I was more than a little re¬
luctant to don the device. Yet I was curious
as well. It seemed a fascinating prospect to
be able to look at the world through other
eyes, as fascinating as visiting a new world—
which it was, according to the professor. So,
after a few moments of hesitation, I picked up
the instrument, slipped it over my head so
that the eye-glasses were in the proper posi¬
tion, and looked inquiringly at van Mander¬

pootz.

“You must turn it on,” he said, reaching
over and clicking a switch on the frame.
“Now. Now flash the light to my face.
That’s the way; just center the circle of light
on my face. And now what do you see?”

I DIDN’T answer. What I saw was, for
the moment, quite indescribable. I was
completely dazed and bewildered, and it was
only when some involuntary movement of my
head at last flashed the light from the pro¬
fessor’s face to the table top that a measure
of sanity returned, which proves at least that
tables do not possess any point of view.
“O-o-o-h!” I gasped.

Van Manderpootz beamed. “Of course you
are overwhelmed. One could hardly expect
to adopt the view of Van Manderpootz with¬
out some difficulties of adjustment. A second
time will be easier.”

I reached up and switched off the light. “A
second time will be not only easier, but also
impossible,” I said crossly. “I’m not going to
experience another dizzy spell like that for
anybody.”

“But of course you will, Dixon. I am cer¬
tain that the dizziness will be negligible on
the second trial. Naturally the unexpected
heights affected you, much as if you were to
come without warning to the brink of a colos¬
sal precipice. But this time you will be pre¬
pared, and the effect will be much less.”

Well, it was. After a few moments I was
able to give my full attention to the phe¬
nomena of the attitudinizor, and queer phe¬
nomena they were, too. I scarcely know how
to describe the sensation of looking at the
world through the filter of another’s mind.
It is almost an indescribable experience, but
so, in the ultimate analysis, is any other ex¬
perience.

What I saw first was a kaleidoscopic array
of colors and shapes, but the amazing, as¬
tounding, inconceivable thing about the scene
was that there was no single color I could
recognize! The eyes of van Manderpootz,
or perhaps his brain, interpreted color in a
fashion utterly alien to the way in which my
own functioned, and the resultant spectrum
was so bizarre that there is simply no way of
describing any single tint in words. To say,
as I did to the professor, that his conception
of red looked to me like a shade between
purple and green conveys absolutely no mean¬
ing, and the only way a third person could ap¬
preciate the meaning would be to examine my
point of view through an attitudinizor while
I was examining that of van Manderpootz.
Thus he could apprehend my conception of
van Manderpootz’s reaction to the color red.

And shapes! It took me several minutes
to identify the weird, angular, twisted, dis¬
torted appearance in the center of the room
as the plain laboratory table. The room it¬
self, aside from its queer form, looked
smaller, perhaps because van Manderpootz is
somewhat larger than I.

But by far the strangest part of his point
of view had nothing to do with the outlook
upon the physical world, but with the more
fundmental elements—with his attitudes.
Most of his thoughts, on that first occasion.

STARTLING STORIES

were beyond me, because I had not yet
learned to interpret the personal symbolism
in which he thought. But I did understand
his attitudes.

There was Carter, for instance, toiling
away out in the large laboratory. I saw at
once that a plodding, unintelligent drudge
he seemed to van Manderpootz. And there
was Miss Fitch. I confess that she had al¬
ways seemed unattractive to me, but my im¬
pression of her was Venus herself beside
that of the professor! She hardly seemed
human to him, and I am sure that he never
thought of her as a woman, but merely as a
piece of convenient but unimportant labora¬
tory equipment.

A T THIS point I caught a glimpse of my¬
self through the eyes of van Mander-
ootz. Ouch! Perhaps I’m not a genuis, but
’m dead certain that I’m not the grinning ape
I appeared to be in his eyes. And perhaps I’m
not exactly the handsomest man in the world
either, but if I thought I looked like that!
And then, to cap the climax, I apprehended
van Manderpootz’s conception of himself!

“That’s enough!” I yelled. “I won’t stay
around here just to be insulted. I’m through!”

I tore the attitudinizor from my head and
tossed it to the table, feeling suddenly a little
foolish at the sight of the grin on the face
of the professor.

“That is hardly the spirit which has led
science to its great achievements, Dixon,”
he observed amiably. “Suppose you describe
the nature of the insults, and if possible,
something about the working of the attitu¬
dinizor as well. After all, that is what you
were supposed to be observing.”

I flushed, grumbled a little, and complied.
Van Manderpootz listened with great interest
to my description of the differences in our
physical worlds, especially the variations in
our perceptions of form and color.

“What a field for an artist!” he ejaculated
at last. “Unfortunately, it is a field that must
remain forever untapped, because even
though an artist examined a thousand view-
oints and learned innumerable new colors,
is pigments would continue to impress his
audience with the same old colors each of
them had always known.” He sighed thought¬
fully, and then proceeded. “However, the
device is apparently quite safe to use. I
shall therefore try it briefly, bringing to the
investigation a calm, scientific mind which
refuses to be troubled by the sort of trifles
that seem to bother you.”

He donned the attitudinizor, and I must
confess that he stood the shock of the first
trial somewhat better than I did. After a
surprised “Oof!” he settled down to a com¬
placent analysis of my point of view, while
I sat somewhat self-consciously under his
calm appraisal. Calm, that is, for about three
minutes.

Suddenly he leaped to his feet, tearing the
device from a face whose normal ruddiness
had deepened to a choleric angry color.

“Get out!” he roared. “So that’s the way
van Manderpootz looks to you! Moron!
Idiot! Imbecile! Get out!”

It was a week or ten days later that I hap¬

pened to be passing the University on my
way from somewhere to somewhere else, and
I fell to wondering whether the professor
had yet forgiven me. There was a light in
the window of his laboratory over in the
Physics Building, so I dropped in, making my
way past the desk where Carter labored, and
the corner where Miss Fitch sat in dull prim¬
ness at her endless task of transcribing lec-

Van Manderpootz greeted me cordially
enough, but with a curious assumption of
melancholy in his manner.

“Ah, Dixon,” he began, “I am glad to see
you. Since our last meeting I have learned
much of the stupidity of the world, and it
appears to me now that you are actually one
of the more intelligent contemporary minds.”

T HIS from van Manderpootz!

“Why—thank you,” I said.

“It is true. For some days I have sat at
the window overlooking the street there, and
have observed the viewpoints of the passers-
by. Would you believe”—his voice lowered
—“would you believe that only seven and
four-tenths per cent are even aware of the
exitence of van Manderpootz? And doubt¬
less many of the few who are, come from
among the students in the neighborhood. I
knew that the average level of intelligence
was low, but it had not occurred to me that
it was as low as that.”

“After all,” I said consolingly, “you must
remember that the achievements of van Man¬
derpootz are such as to attract the attention
of the intelligent few rather than of the
many.”

“A very silly paradox!” he snapped. “On
the basis of that theory, since the higher one
goes in the scale of intelligence, the fewer
individuals one finds, the greatest achieve¬
ment of all is one that nobody has heard of.
By that test you would be greater than van
Manderpootz, an obvious reductio ad absur-
dum.”

He glared his reproof that I should even
have thought of the point, then something in
the outer laboratory caught his ever-obser-
vant eye.

“Carter!” he roared. “Is that a synobasical
interphasometer in the positronic flow?
Fool! What sort of measurements do you ex¬
pect to make when your measing instrument
itself is part of the experiment? Take it out
and start over!”

He rushed away toward the unfortunate
technician. I settled idly back in my chair
and stared about the small laboratory, whose
walls had seen so many marvels. The latest,
the attitudinizor, lay carelessly on the table,
dropped there by the professor after his an¬
alysis of the mass viewpoint of the pedes¬
trians in the street below.

I picked up the device and fell to examin¬
ing its construction. Of course this was ut¬
terly beyond me, for no ordinary engineer
can hope to grasp the intricacies of a van
Manderpootz concept. So, after a puzzled
but admiring survey of its infinitely delicate
wires and grids and lenses, I made the obvi¬
ous move. I put it on.

My first thought was the street, but since

THE POINT OF VIEW

the evening was well along, the walk below
the window was deserted. Back in my chair
again, I sat musing idly when a faint sound
that was not the rumbling of the professors
voice attracted my attention. I identified it
shortly as the buzzing of a heavy fly, butting
its head stupidly against the pane of glass
that separated the small laboratory from
the large room beyond. I wondered casually
what the viewpoint of a fly was like, and
ended by flashing the light on the creature.

For some moments I saw nothing other
than I had been seeing right along from my
own personal point of view, because, as van
Manderpootz explained later, the psychons
from the miserable brain of a fly are too few
to produce any but the vaguest of impres¬
sions. But gradually I became aware of a
picture, a queer and indescribable scene.

Flies are color-blind. That was my first
impression, for the world was a dull pan¬
orama of grays and whites and blacks. Flies
are extremely near-sighted; when I had final¬
ly identified the scene as the interior of the
familiar room, I discovered that it seemed
enormous to the insect, whose vision did not
extend more than six feet, though it did take
in almost a complete sphere, so that the
creature could see practically in all directions

TBBUT perhaps the most astonishing thing,
-B® though I did not think of it until later,
was that the compound eye of the insect did
not convey to it the impressions of a vast
number of separate pictures, such as the eye
produces when a microphotograph is taken
through it. The fly sees one picture just as
we do; in the same way as our brain rights the
upside-down image cast on our retina, the
fly’s brain reduces the compond image to one.
And beyond these impressions were a wild
hodge-podge of smell-sensations, and a
strange desire to burst through the invisible
glass barrier into the brighter light beyond.
But I had not time to analyze these sensa¬
tions, for suddenly there was a flash of some¬
thing infinitely clearer than the dim cerebra¬
tions of a fly.

For half a minute or longer I was unable
to guess what that momentary flash had been.
I knew that I had seen something incredibly
lovely, that I had tapped a viewpoint that
looked upon something whose very presence
caused ecstasy, but whose viewpoint it was,
or what that flicker of beauty had been, were
questions beyond my ability to answer.

I slipped off the attitudinizor and sat star¬
ing perplexedly at the buzzing fly on the
pane of glass. Out in the other room van
Manderpootz continued his harangue to the
repentent Carter, and off in a corner invisible
from my position I could hear the rustle of
papers as Miss Fitch transcribed endless
notes. I puzzled vainly over the problem of
what had happened, and then the solution
dawned on me.

The fly must have buzzed between me and
one of the occupants of the outer laboratory.

I had been following its flight with the faintly
visible beam of the attitudinizor’s light, and
that beam must have been either the pro¬
fessor or Carter, since the secretary was

quite beyond range of the light.

It seemed improbable that the cold and bril¬
liant mind of van Manderpootz could be the
agency of the sort of emotional ecstasy I
had sensed. It must, therefore, have been
the head of the mild and inoffensive little
Carter that the beam had tapped. With a
feeling of curiosity I slipped the device back
of my own head and sent the beam sweeping
dimly into the larger room.

It did not at the time occur to me that
such a procedure was quite as discreditable
as eavesdropping, or even more dishonorable,
if you come right down to it, because it meant
the theft of far more personal information
than one could ever convey by the spoken
word. But all I considered at the moment
was my own curiosity. I wanted to learn
what sort of viewpoint could produce that
strange, instantaneous flash of beauty. If
the proceeding was unethical—well, heaven
knows I was punished for it.

So I turned the attitudinizor on Carter.
At the moment, he was listening respectfully
to van Manderpootz, and I sensed clearly
his respect for the great man, a respect that
had in it a distinct element of fear. I could
hear Carter’s impression of the booming
voice of the professor, sounding somewhat
like the modulated thunder of a god, which
was not far from the little man’s actual
opinion of his master. I perceived Carter’s
opinion of himself, and his self-picture was
an even more mouselike portrayal than my
own impression of him. When, for an instant,
he glanced my way, I sensed his impression of
me, and while I’m sure that Dixon Wells is
not the imbecile he appears to van Mander¬
pootz, I’m equally sure that he’s not the
debonair man of the world he seemed to
Carter. All in all, Carter’s point of view
seemed that of a timid, inoffensive, retiring,
servile little man, and I wondered all the
more what could have caused that vanished
flash of beauty in a mind like his.

T HERE was no trace of it now. His at¬
tention was completely taken up by the
voice of van Manderpootz, who had passed
from a personal appraisal of Carter’s stupid¬
ity to a general lecture on the fallacies of the
unified field theory as presented by his rivals
Corveille and Shrimski. Carter was listen¬
ing with an almost worshipful regard, and I
could feel his surges of indignation against
the villians who dared to disagree with the
authority of van Manderpootz.

I sat there intent on the strange double
vision of the attitudinizor, which was in some
respects like a Horsteh psychomat—that is,
one is able to see both through his own eyes
and through the eyes of his subject. Thus I
could see van Manderpootz and Carter quite
clearly, but at the same time I could see or
sense what Carter saw and sensed. Thus I
perceived suddenly through my own eyes
that the professor had ceased talking to Car¬
ter, and had turned at the approach of some¬
body as yet invisible to me, while at the
same time, through Carter’s eyes, I saw that
vision of ecstasy which had flashed for a mo¬
ment in his mind. I saw—description is ut¬
terly impossible, but I saw a woman who, ex-

STARTLING STORIES

cept possibly for the woman of the idealiza-
tor screen, was the most beautiful creature I
had ever seen!

I say description is impossible. That is
the literal truth, for her coloring, her expres¬
sion, her figure, as seen through Carter’s eyes,
were completely unlike anything expressible
by words. I was fascinated. I could do noth¬
ing but watch, and I felt a wild surge of
jealousy as I caught the adoration in the at¬
titude of the humble Carter. She was glori¬
ous, magnificent, indescribable. It was with
an effort that I untangled myself from the
web of fascination enough to catch Carter’s
thought of her name.

“Lisa,” he was thinking. “Lisa.”

What she said to van Manderpootz was in
tones too low for me to hear, and apparently
too low for Carter’s ears as well, else I should
have heard her words through the attitud-
inizor. Both of us heard van Manderpootz’s
bellow in answer.

“I don’t care how the dictionary pro¬
nounces the word!” he roared. “The way van
Manderpootz pronounces a word is right!”

The glorious Lisa turned silently and
vanished. For a few moments I watched her
through Carter’s eyes, but as she neared the
laboratory door, he turned his attention again
to van Manderpootz, and she was lost to my
view. And as I saw the professor close his
dissertation and approach me. I slipped the
attitudinizor from my head and forced myself
to a measure of calm. “Who is she?” I de¬
manded. “I’ve got to meet her!”

He looked blankly at me. “Who's who?”

“Lisa! Who’s Lisa?”

There was not a flicker in the cool blue eyes
of van Manderpootz.

“I don’t know any Lisa,” he said indiffer¬
ently.

“But you were just talking to her! Right
out there!”

Van Manderpootz stared curiously at me.
Then little by little a shrewd suspicion
seemed to dawn in his broad, intelligent fea¬
tures.

“Hah!” he said. “Have you, by any chance,
been using the attitudinizor?”

I nodded, chill apprehension gripping me.

“And is it also true that you chose to in¬
vestigate the viewpoint of Carter out there?”
At my nod, he stepped to the door that joined
the two rooms, and closed it. When he faced
me again, it was with features working into
lines of amusement that suddenly found ut¬
terance in booming laughter. “Haw!” he
roared. “Do you know who the beautiful
Lisa is? She’s Fitch!

“Fitch? You’re mad! She’s glorious, and
Fitch is plain and scrawny and ngly. Do you
think I’m a fool?”

“You ask an embarrassing question,”
chuckled the professor. "Listen to me, Dixon.
The woman you saw was my secretary, Miss
Fitch, seen through the eyes of Carter. Don’t
you understand? The idiot Carter’s in love
with her!”

f SUPPOSE I walked the upper levels half
the night, oblivious alike of the narrow
strip of stars that showed between the tower¬
ing walls of Twenty-first Century New York,

and the intermittent roar of traffic from the
freight levels. Certainly this was the worst
predicament of all those into which the fiend¬
ish contraptions of the great van Mander¬
pootz had thrust me.

In love with a point of view! In love with
a woman who had no existence apart from
the beglamoured eyes of Carter. It wasn’t
Lisa Fitch I loved; indeed, I rather hated
her angular ugliness. What I had fallen in
love with was the way she looked to Carter,
for there is nothing in the world quite as
beautiful as a lover’s conception of his sweet-

This predicament was far worse than my
former ones. When I had fallen in love with
a girl already dead, I could console myself
with the thought of what might have been.
When I had fallen in love with my own ideal
—well, at least she was mine, even if I
couldn’t have her. But to fall in love with
another man’s conception! The only way that
conception could even continue to exist was
for Carter to remain in love with Lisa Fitch,
which rather effectually left me outside the
picture altogether. She was absolutely un¬
attainable to me, for heaven knows I didn’t
want the real Lisa Fitch—“real” meaning, of
course, the one who was real to me. I sup¬
pose in the end Carter’s Lisa Fitch was as
real as the skinny scarecrow my eyes saw.

She was unattainable—or was she? Sud¬
denly an echo of a long-forgotten psychology
course recurred to me. Attitudes are habits.
Viewpoints are attitudes. Therefore view¬
points are habits. And—habits can be learned!

There was the solution! All I had to do
was to learn, or to acquire by practice, the
viewpoint of Carter. What I had to do was
literally to put myself in his place to look at
things his way, to see his viewpoint. For,
once I learned to do that, I could see in Lisa
Fitch the very things he saw, and the vision
would become reality to me as well as to

So I planned carefully. I did not care to
face the sarcasm of the great van Mander¬
pootz; therefore I would work in secret. I
would visit his laboratory at such times as
he had classes or lectures, and I would use
the attitudinizor to study the viewpoint of
Carter, and to, as it were, practise that view¬
point. Thus I would have the means at hand
of testing my progress, for all I had to do
was glance at Miss Fitch without the attitu¬
dinizor. As soon as I began to perceive in
her what Carter saw, I would know that
success was imminent.

Those next two weeks were a strange in¬
terval of time. I haunted the laboratory of
van Manderpootz at off hours, having learned
from the University office what period she
devoted to his courses. When one day I
found the attitudinizor missing, I prevailed
on Carter to show me where it was kept, and
he, influenced doubtless by my friendship
for the man he practically worshiped, indi¬
cated the place without question.

But later I suspect that he began to doubt
his wisdom in this, for I know he thought
it strange for me to sit for long periods star¬
ing at him. I caught all sorts of puzzled
questions in his mind, though as I have said,

THE POINT OF VIEW

these were hard for me to decipher until I
began to learn Carter’s personal system of
symbolism by which he thought. But at least
one man was pleased—my father, who took
my absences from the office and neglect of
business as signs of good health and spirits,
and congratulated me warmly on the im¬
provement.

B UT the experiment was beginning to
work. I found myself sympathizing with
Carter’s viewpoint, and little by little the
mad world in which he lived was becoming as
logical as my own. I learned to recognize
colors through his eyes; I learned to under¬
stand form and shape; most fundamental of
all, I learned his values, his attitudes, his
tastes. And these last were a little incon¬
venient at times, for on the several occa¬
sions when I supplemented my daily calls
with visits to van Manderpootz in the eve¬
ning, I found some difficulty in separating
my own respectful regard for the great man
from Carter’s unreasoning worship, with the
result that I was on the verge of blurting out
the whole thing to him several times. And
perhaps it was a guilty conscience, but I kept
thinking that the shrewd blue eyes of the
professor rested on me with a curiously sus¬
picious expression all evening.

The thing was approaching its culmina¬
tion. Now and then, when I looked at the
angular ugliness of Miss Fitch, I began to
catch glimpses of the same miraculous beauty
that Carter found in her—glimpses only, but
harbingers of success. Each day I arrived
at the laboratory with increasing eagerness,
for each day brought me nearer to the
achievement I sought. That is, my eagerness
increased until one day I arrived to find
neither Carter nor Miss Fitch present, but
van Manderpootz, who should have been de¬
livering a lecture on indeterminism, very
much in evidence.

“Uh—hello,” I said weakly.

“Umph!” he responded, glaring at me. “So
Carter was right, I see. Dixon, the abysmal
stupidity of the human race continually
astounds me with new evidence of its astro¬
nomical depths, but I believe this escapade
of yours plumbs the uttermost regions of
imbecility.”

“M-my escape?”

“Do you think you can escape the pierc¬
ing eye of van Manderpootz? As soon as
Carter told me you had been here in my
absence, my mind leaped nimbly to the
truth. But Carter’s information was not
even necessary, for half an eye was enough
to detect the change in your attitude on these
last few evening visits. So you’ve been try¬
ing to adopt Carter’s viewpoint, eh? No
doubt with the idea of ultimately depriving
him of the charming Miss Fitch!”

“W-why—”

“Listen to me, Dixon. We will disregard
the ethics of the thing and look at it from a
purely rational viewpoint, if a rational view¬
point is possible to anybody but van Man¬
derpootz. Don’t you realize that in order to
attain Carter’s attitude toward Fitch, you
would have to adopt his entire viewpoint?
Not,” he added tersely, “that I think his
point of view is greatly inferior to yours, but
I happen to prefer the viewpoint of a donkey
to that of a mouse. Your particular brand of
stupidity is more agreeable to me than Car¬
ter’s timid, weak, and subservient nature,
and some day you will thank me for this.
Was his impression of Fitch worth the sacri¬
fice of your own personality?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Well, whether it was or not, van Mander¬
pootz has decided the matter in the wisest
way. For it’s too late now, Dixon. I have
given them both a month’s leave and sent
them away—on a honeymoon. They left this
morning.”

fU ~3iSite J op 5 ame ^ehction

BEYOND THE SINGING FLAME

By CLARK ASHTON SMITH

Now She Shops

“Cash and Carry”

Without Painful Backache

Many sufferers relieve nagging backache
quickly, once they discover that the real cause
of their trouble may be tired kidneys.

The kidneys are Natlure’s chief way of tak¬
ing the excess acids and waste out of the blood.
They help most people pass about 3 pints a day.

When disorder of kidney function permits
poisonous matter to remain in your blood, it
ma ycause nagging backache, rhepmatic pains,
leg pains, loss of pep and energy, getting up

nights, swelling, puffiness under the eyes, head¬
aches and dizziness. Frequent or scanty pas¬
sages with smarting and burning sometimes
shows there is something wrong with your kid¬
neys or bladder.

Don’t wait! Ask your druggist for Doan’s
Pills, used successfully by millions for over 40
years. They give happy relief and will help the
15 miles of kidney tubes flush out poisonous
waste from your blood. Get Doan’s Pills. iAdv.i

rffirilis 1

SCIENCE

Thumbnail Sketches of Great Men and Achievements
By OSCAR J. FRIEND

SMOOTH AS SILK

The Story of Count de Chardonnet, Father of Rayon

B ACK in 1664 an English naturalist
named Robert Hooke studied the silk¬
worm—which sericulture had been
slowly spreading around the world from
China—and said, in essence:

“There should be a way to make an arti¬
ficial glutinous compound as good as or bet¬
ter than whatever substance it is from which
the silkworm wire-draws his clew.”

Hooke wrote at greater length on the sub¬
ject, pointing out the fame and fortune

COUNT HILAIRE DE CHARDONNET

awaiting the man who succeeded in creating
synthetic silk. Down through the years other
men thought and spoke upon this subject, but
nothing practical came of these dreams until
a Swiss chemist named Audemars completed
his experiments in London in 1855.

Audemars, knowing that the silkworm de¬
rived its cellulose from feeding on mulberry
leaves, proceeded to take the mulberry tree
as his source for cellulose.

He succeeded finally in treating the inner
bark of the tree with nitric acid to form
cellulose nitrate, which is still used as gun¬
cotton. He dissolved it in alcohol and ether
to make collodion. But he never got down

to the business of making artificial silk
thread.

Thus the matter rested until there came
out of Besancon, France, a young man named
Hilaire de Chardonnet who went to Paris to
complete his education.

Just what this young man’s future might
have been had he not crossed the path of
Louis Pasteur, no one can say. But he be¬
came a pupil and then an assistant of the
great research scientist, about the time that
the French silkworm industry was in despair
over a terrible silkworm disease called
pebrine.

What Louis Pasteur did to save the silk in¬
dustry of southern France is another story,
but the result to Hilaire de Chardonnet was
to launch him into his life’s work . . . the
manufacture of artificial silk!

Born in 1839, Count de Chardonnet lived
until 1924, a long and fruitful life in which
he saw the synthetic silk industry become
one of the largest and strongest in the world.

“You see,” de Chardonnet went about tell¬
ing everybody he could interest in the sub¬
ject, “Audemars had the right idea. Cellulose
is the base of all silk. But he failed to turn
the liquid stuff into thread. He dipped
needles into the solution and drew them out
to get short strings of the stuff. What we
need is an unbroken strand such as is reeled
from the cocoon.”

It wasn’t quite as simple as this. First,
de Chardonnet had to experiment for years
to find the best form of cellulose. This
proved to come from cotton instead of the
mulberry tree. Then there was the proper
way of treating it with chemicals to get the
best product and then to remove the un¬
wanted chemicals later.

This meant years of patient research, trial
and error, study and application. And when
it was done, there remained the fact that the
stuff wasn’t properly spun into thread. It
was a vat of viscous solution which would
harden on contact with the air.

“Why don’t you simply dip people in the
stuff?” suggested his wife one day, with a
laugh. “That will give you a perfectly fitting
silk garment.”

“That isn’t funny,” said the inventor sadly.
“You know we want to spin thread and weave
cloth out of which to tailor garments and

make clothing—out of which thread we want
to weave stockings.”

“I thought you said Audemars dipped
needles and made short threads.”

“He did, but what was he working for?”
snorted de Chardonnet. “Filaments for elec¬
tric light bulbs! That’s all they are all trying
to make—filaments for Edison’s bulb. I want
to make silk!”

“Then,” suggested his wife, “why don’t you
spin your cellulose like the silkworm does?”

Hilaire de Chardonnet stopped his restless
pacing and stared angrily at his wife.

“That is precisely what I have been trying
to tell—”

He broke off and continued to stare at her,
his eyes going wide with speculation.

Then he uttered a cry of delight, snatched
his spouse up from her chair and kissed her.
“My dear, you have said nothing new to me,
but you have given me an idea!”

Like a madman he rushed back to his lab¬
oratory and his batch of silkworms. That
was it! Nobody had given any practical
thought to the matter of how to get the cellu¬
lose solution into long and continuous
threads. Everybody had simply toyed with
the business, had just dabbled in the field in
a hesitant manner.

Study of the silkworm now brought de
Chardonnet to close examination of the nat¬
ural construction of the silkworm’s spinning
apparatus. In company with Pasteur he had

studied many a worm under the microscope,
but he had never thought of trying to dupli¬
cate the grub’s spinneret.

Now he applied his mechanical mind to the
problem. The result was many a headache
and many a sleepless night as he sought to
reconcile the mechanical job with the prop¬
erties of his cellulose compound. And at
last, after nearly thirty years of constant
work and research, he came up with a force-
feed spinneret which was so simple that he
could have kicked himself for not having
figured it out the first year. This was noth¬
ing more than a disc with fine holes drilled
through it.

Upon installation with other spinning and
weaving machinery, he got together the first
apparatus to force his cellulose compound
through the spinneret in fine threads into a
water bath where it hardened and had the
excess alcohol and ether washed away as the
threads were drawn on to a gathering reel.

The result was the “wet” spinning process
and the creation of de Chardonnet silk. In
1891 Hilaire de Chardonnet established the
first artificial silk mill in his own home town
for the commercial production of yarn by
the nitro-cellulose process.

Today there are four successful processes
of making this synthetic silk, but to Count
Hilaire de Chardonnet goes the distinction of
being the father of the rayon industry.

SELF-MADE SCIENCE

Thales Had No Tools or Equipment—Only His Brain!

I N THIS series about great discoveries and
inventions in science we have heretofore
dealt with men who have had tools and
Implements with which to work—or at least
have made their own tools—and have had the
brilliant minds of predecessors to guide
them. In this sketch we will tell the story
of the man who has been called the “father
of science” and who had nothing to work with
but his own mind and the fallacious theories
of his contemporaries.

Just as Copernicus studied the heavens
without benefit of telescope and other astro¬
nomical instruments in the early part of the
sixteenth century, the father of science
studied and weighed everything that came
under his observation some twenty-two
hundred years earlier.

Who was this phenomenal man?

His name was Thales and he was born in
ancient Attica about 640 B. C. Herodotus
tells us he was a Phoenician, although it is
likely Thales was a Greek of Asia Minor ex¬
traction. That really doesn’t matter. No
one today can tell us what Thales looked
like, what his tastes and habits were, or how
he died and where he was buried. Too little
is known about this great man except that
certain fundamental truths he discovered
have been given to the world, laying the
foundation for the building of the temple of
science.

His father, one Examyus, was a wealthy
noble and he deemed it fitting that his son be
given as thorough an education as was pos¬
sible in those times. Thus it was that Thales

came to sit at the feet of Egyptian wisdom.

Thales was an ardent individualist. He
was original in thought. He could accept no
man’s word as final, but insisted on reasoning
out things for himself. The answers to the
myriad riddles of the earth and the universe
as propounded by philosophers did not satis¬
fy him. As he could not endure living in a
world that bristled with question marks, he
set out to find the answers for himself.

Nearly everybody remembers Mark Twain’s
“A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s
Court” and how this hero won fame for him¬
self by predicting an eclipse of the sun. Most
of you know that Mark Twain deliberately
borrowed this incident from genuine history,
saying so in the story. But from whom did
he borrow it? The answer is Thales.

In the year S8S B. C., having already
studied the movements of the heavenly bodies
he could see with the naked eye and having
already made the heretical and incredible
statement that when the sun or the moon was
blotted out by dark shadow that was because
the earth intervened, he predicted that the
sun would be darkened on the twenty-eighth
of May.

Everybody sneered at him and nobody be¬
lieved him. Certainly not the Medes and the
Lydians who proceeded to put on one of their
best battles on. that day. Thales proved cor¬
rect, and the skeptics were convinced. But
Thales didn’t stop at this.

He could not agree with the theory that
the sun was a midget thing the size of a din¬
ner plate that swung around the earth much

in the manner of a marble tied to the end of
a string.

He set out to measure the sun, figuring on
perspective and distance by comparison with
earthly things. Of course, he was consider¬
ably afield in his computation, but he said
that the sun was at least one 720th part of
the zodiac in diameter—which was a much
larger sun than anyone before Thales had
dared to think.

Astronomy, however, was not one of
Thales’ major subjects. He considered every¬
thing that came under his powers of observa¬
tion. Principally the Egyptian science of
geometry, then in a very elementary stage.
Thales it was who thought out and then pro¬
ceeded to prove certain fundamental laws
about this science. He it was who first said:

“A circle is bisected by its diameter. The
angle in a semicircle is a right angle. When
two straight lines cut each other the opposing
angles thus formed are equal. The angles at
the base of an isosceles triangle are equal.”

Simple and self-evident things to a school¬
boy of today, eh? But when Thales dug
these facts up and proved them, they were
amazing to the people of the ancient world
in which he lived.

He soon outstripped his Egyptian mentors,
lifting the crude science of plane geometry
into the realm of exact science and fathering
the growth of solid geometry. But the amaz¬
ing thing about all that Thales discovered
was the fact that he did it all by the power of
thought alone. He had absolutely no scien¬
tific instruments with which to work to estab¬
lish his facts, many of which were so accurate
that there has been no change to the present
day.

He aroused a certain amount of enmity
among the Egyptian priesthood, for the
priests thought themselves well-versed in the
mysteries of mathematics. They employed
plane geometry to lay out the fields for the
farmers of the Nile. They were the workers
of mental magic, and Thales was stealing
their thunder.

“If you are so gifted in this learning,” said
one of them to him one day in great anger,
“suppose you tell us how to compute the
height of the Great Pyramid of Cheops. How
can we accurately measure its height by your
system of mathematics?”

“Yes,” shouted another. “Tell us that,
Thales! Not even the high priest of Mem¬
phis or of Thebes can do this. Can you?”

Thales considered this question for a long
moment. He knew that he stood in danger
of disgrace and ridicule if not actual danger.
The tricky priests had crowded him into a
corner. But his friend the sun, whom he had
spent so much time observing, now came to
his aid. His powers of observation and his
greater power of reasoning thought saw him
safely through this dilemma.

“Yes,” he finally made answer, “I can tell
you. To know the height of the pyramid,
measure the length of the pyramid’s shadow
when your own shadow exactly equals your
own height.”

Idiotically simple, as were many of the
truths and facts and laws that Thales pro¬
pounded, but nobody before Thales had had
the vision and concentration to put together
the right association of ideas. Thus, to
Thales do we owe the first correct steps in
laying the accurate foundations for many of
the sciences.

WAVES OF GENIUS

How Rudolf Hertz Drew Scientific Secrets from the Air

I T WAS a severely cold day in Hamburg on
Sunday, February 22, 1857. The Hertz
household was in a commotion. An heir
to the family was born, and the doctor and
the nurse and members of the family were
busily engaged in fussing and fluttering
around.

Far away across hundreds of miles of land
and sea, in the university at Aberdeen, Scot¬
land, a professor of natural philosophy was
having his Sunday morning breakfast of oat¬
meal and hot milk, utterly unaware of the
birth of that fat little German baby, much less
that the laboratory proofs of his brilliant
theories lay in that tiny infant hand.

James Clerk Maxwell, following in the
footsteps of Faraday, a famous scientist in
his own right at the age of twenty-six, had
taken Faraday’s discoveries and gone further
in the realm of theoretical science upon them.

He had reduced to equations and formulae
a magnificent theory about electricity. He
had propounded the amazing theory that
electro-magnetic disturbances are propogated
as waves. He was trying to identify light
and electrical energy. He had a very fine set
of theories, based on Faraday’s work—but he
couldn’t prove it by practical application.

Rudolf Hertz, that newly born Hamburg
baby, seemed to have been boro old. He was

studying works of mathematics when other
boys were still playing marbles. He was only
twenty when he went to Munich in 1877 to
study engineering.

Less than a year of study showed him that
he didn’t want to become an engineer. It
showed him precisely what he did want to do
—master physical science—and he at once set
about doing so.

In 1880 he won a prize with a paper on
“Kinetic Energy of Electricity in Motion.”
That was the kind of serious-minded young
chap he was when he first listened to the lec¬
tures of the great von Helmholtz. Such an
electrical wizard was he when he first had his
attention called to Maxwell’s electric-mag¬
netic theory.

Von Helmholtz tried to persuade Hertz to
start laboratory work upon this brilliant
theory, but Hertz declined to do this for the
very good reason that he could think of no
approach to make on the Scot’s theory.
Nevertheless, the idea lay fallow in his mind
until one day at Kiel in 1883.

It was a queer sort of set-up. From Fara¬
day’s researches Maxwell had evolved a bril¬
liant theory of electro-magnetic waves of
energy and had reduced his theory to cold
mathematical formula—but he had made not
the slightest attempt to put his theory to

laboratory proof. Perhaps he did not know
just how to do it.

That was Rudolph Hertz’ trouble until that
day at Kiel. Here he saw two captive bal¬
loons aloft in a thunderstorm. A flash of
lightning narrowly missed one of the bal¬
loons, and a discharge of sparks seemed to
leap from one balloon to the other.

“Like a chain of light gold between a pair
of huge pearl earrings,” said an awed spec¬
tator nearby. “Just what was that? A wave
of electric force?”

This remark struck Hertz forcibly and he
mused over it for nearly two years.

Then in 1885 he became professor of phys¬
ics in the Carlsruhe Polytechnic. Here he
found time to think more deeply about the
Maxwell theory so neatly reduced to paper
formulae and so impractical of laboratory

But was it really a tenable theory? Would
it stand up under test? Was it possible to
test it? How could the possibility of electro¬
magnetic waves be checked upon?

And into Hertz’ mind leaped that remark
he had overheard two years previously at

Bi A PAID-UP

DY March 15th fifty million Americans will have
had to file income reports and make payments,
many of them paying taxes for the first time. All
single persons earning more than $500 and every
husband and wife either of whose individual income
was $624 or more and everybody who paid or owes a
tax on 1942 income must file a return.

This year taxpayers must compute income tax, Vic¬
tory tax, and possible percentage of the partially
forgiven 1942 tax—as well as make an estimate re¬
turn on the current 1944 income! Salary and wage
withholding taxes have not relieved us of the obliga¬
tion of filing returns.

Kiel. “A chain of light gold between a pair
of huge pearl earrings.” Nothing new about
static electricity, of course, but the metaphor
that unnamed citizen had employed now stuck
out in Hertz’ mind. He decided to tackle the
Maxwell theory and prove or disprove it.

Thanks to his own heavy grounding in
mathematics and electricity, it did not take
Hertz long to devise a working instrument.
His final paraphernalia was relatively simple.
He took a pair of zinc plates to which he
attached rods, ending in brass balls which he
highly polished. The rods he put in contact
with the poles of an induction coil.

Thus, when the plates were charged and
Hertz brought the two balls close together a
spank would leap across the gap.

It was this leaping of the current back and
forth that Maxwell had said would send elec¬
tric waves into the air. Thus, Hertz’ job now
was to detect these waves and prove that they
were actually escaping.

To do this he made a detector of copper
wire bent into a circle, with balls at the ends
and a set-screw sort of gadget so that the
space between these balls could be regulated
exactly. Then he held this queer sort of
divining rod near the zinc plates and the
sparking brass balls.

At once tiny sparks appeared at the ends
of his circular wire. What were they, and
where did they come from? Hertz nearly
dropped his crude detector in his excitement.
They were electric waves released by the
vibrator. They were waves of electric force!

Maxwell’s theory was now thoroughly vin¬
dicated in Hertz’ mind. All he had to do was
measure the force and prove beyond all doubt
that it originated from a designated point
and traveled in wireless space to a suitable
receiver.

Hertz had followed Maxwell’s theory and
had discovered first what has since been
named Hertzian waves in his honor.

And what are Hertzian waves? As you sit
in comfort at home and listen to programs
of song or music or talks over your radio,
bear in mind that your enjoyment is being
supplied by the work of Hertzian waves,
without the existence of which radio tubes
and broadcasting stations and receivers would
be useless.

Marconi, Armstrong, de Forest—and all
others have had to work with the waves that
Hertz discovered. Without Maxwell and
Hertz, or a pair of men like them, there would
be neither wireless or radio or television in
the world today.

PATKI0T!

Don't delay, patriots! File your returns early to
help Uncle Sam. Don’t wait until the last minute,
discovering too late that you need expert advice, or
making a bottleneck jam for the Bureau of Internal
Revenue. To help you, there are accountants and
lawyers in tax offices and banks throughout the coun¬
try who will advise you free of charge. There are
simplified tax forms and explanatory booklets.

War is expensive. Remember that ninety-five cents
of every tax dollar goes directly into the war effort.
The sooner the war is won, the sooner taxes will fall
to normal levels. We all know the job must be done.
So be a Paid-up Patriot!

SPfflUn OF THE FURTHER DRRK

By FRANK BELKNAP LONG

When the Honeymoon Rocket-Ship of Bill Hilton and His Bride
Goes Dead at the Edge of the Orbits, They Thumb a Ride from
a Mysterious Visitor Who Leads Them to Fearsome Adventure!

T HOUGH the meteor had swerved
dangerously close, Hilton ignored
the protests of the slender, green-
eyed girl by his side. He sat hunched
above the controls, his handsome profile
bisecting the Morning Star’s glowing
viewport. Not only was he having ato-
motor trouble again, but the thrusts of
lopsided power which kept shuddering
through the little space craft had carried

it to the wrong side of the travel zone.

To add to his torment, his bride of two
weeks was reproaching him for some¬
thing he could not help. “Back seat
driving” it had been called, long ago on
Earth.

“Bill, please be careful. We’re wob¬
bling. Oh-h-h, Bill!”

An archaeologist in the ancient Amer¬
ican field, Hilton could escape into a

SPAWN OF THE FURTHER DARK

101

past teeming with historical parallels
when the worst aspects of space-travel
tore at his nerves. He was returning
now to Earth from the little white Jupi¬
ter moon Callisto—returning with the
memory of his honeymoon just a hazy
glow in the depths of his mind. Rolling
over the glow were dark tides of despair,
and little whirlpools of murky rebellion.

Everything had gone wrong. The
j-valves were off-timing, the seepage
fumes were getting worse, and the units
of the control board were displaying a
personal animosity which was anything
but reassuring. He was afraid to tell his
wife that the ship was succumbing to
“instrument fatigue.” There were cer¬
tain things which couldn’t be explained
to a woman this side of Eternity.

“Instrument fatigue” was an intangi¬
ble thing, a hysteria gripping the inani¬
mate, a jumpiness which could somehow
be sensed every time he touched a unit.
Could cold metal feel and think? Prob¬
ably not, but “instrument fatigue” was a
reality notwithstanding. Ask any old
hard-bitten skydog, any master of an
over-aged freighter.

Blown out j-valves and leaking ato-
motor fumes lowered a ship’s morale,
and made it jittery all over. Ships
could have nervous breakdowns, just
like human beings—

“Why can’t you be more careful?”
Janet Hilton complained.

W ithdrawing his gaze from

the void, Hilton swung about in
his seat and regarded his wife with
somber compassion.

“Long ago on Earth,” he said, “when
there were automobiles in every garage,
a pretty woman could travel from New
York to the Golden Gate just by stand¬
ing still. She’d stand by the roadside
and point her thumb in the direction of,
say, Los Angeles. And like as not a
car would stop, and pick her up. It was
called ‘hitch hiking.’ ”

Janet returned his stare unflinchingly.
“Is that what you’re suggesting we do
now?”

Hilton nodded grimly. “It’s the only
thing we can do. The seepage fumes

are getting worse, and you can see how
she keeps wobbling. If we don’t take
a leaf from the past well be sticking
out our necks.”

“I’ll bet fat and dowdy girls didn’t
get far,” Janet demurred, cynically.
“I’ll bet the drivers of those ancient
jalopies liked to glance sideways at
pretty faces. Could—could your pride
stand having me parade my good looks
as a lure?”

“Janet, let’s try to be realistic about
this,” retorted Hilton, slapping his hip-
holstered blast-stick. “A man can be gal¬
lant without overstepping himself. I
guess you know what I’d do to any lad
who tried to be more than just gallant.”

Janet had begun to tremble, but when
she saw the look of anguish on her hus¬
band’s face her manner underwent a
change. Crossing to his knees she
ruffled his hair and kissed him on both
cheeks.

“Okay, d a r 1 i n g,” she capitulated.
“Let’s pick a ship.”

On both sides of them—they were
traveling in the center of the zone now
—the blackness kept erupting pyrotech-
nically. For seven or eight minutes the
viewport would frame an ebon patch of
firmament studded with stars and misty
nebulae, and then— swosh. A little white
burst in the darkness like a rabbit’s tail,
and they would be one more ship ahead,
one less behind.

“This is what we’ll do,” Hilton said.
“I’ll visigraph your image in three di¬
mensions when we see a ship coming
steadily toward us. You’ll look like a
pretty girl pilot in distress when you
swim into view on some lonely lad’s
visiplate. When he discovers you have
a husband who stands six feet three in
his stockings he won’t have the nerve to
back down. While I’m tuning up the
transmitter you’d better get set.”

In utter silence Janet descended from
her husband’s knee, and crossed the con¬
trol room to the visual sending appara¬
tus. Slowly, courageously, she drew
herself up.

The minutes which followed brought
the bitterest humiliation to Hilton. He
stared in blank consternation when two

102

STARTLING STORIES

ships roared past without giving Janet’s
image a chance to register distress. An¬
other slowed, wobbled indecisively, and
went shooting off at right angles to the
zone.

“My image ditched him,” Janet
groaned.

“Quick, darling, wave,” Hilton urged.
“I think this one is stopping.”

I T WAS. As they stared anxiously
through the viewport a cigar-shaped
glowing became a stationary ovoid
agleam with winking lights. The Morn¬
ing Star was the opposite of stationary,
but before the distance which separated
the two ships could widen astronomi¬
cally, Hilton was backing her up. Her
retardation disks thrumming she came
abreast of the ovoid, skidded about on
her under jets, and ceased to wobble.

Crossing to the ovoid in a translucent
gang-cylinder Janet clung tightly to her
husband’s arm, her spine cold with ner¬
vousness.

“Dearest, I’m frightened,” she choked.
“That voice in the audiodisk sounded
as though—”

She hesitated, gnawed at her underlip.
“Yes, darling?” Hilton prodded.
“Well, as though the sender had taken
elocution lessons from a snake!”

Hilton laughed. “Some people just
naturally stress their sibilants,” he
pointed out. “Why, I went to school
once with a boy who couldn’t open his
mouth without making hissing sounds.”

“But why didn’t he visigraph his
image when he spoke to us,” Janet whis¬
pered hoarsely. “Why didn’t he?”

“We’ll know in a minute,” Hilton said,
cupping his wife’s elbow and giving it
a reassuring squeeze.

It was not a happy prediction, for
when they reached the extremity of the
gang-cylinder, and passed into the ovoid
through a yawning gravity lock, a
ghostly silence greeted them. No
sooner were they inside than the lock
wavered shut and they found themselves
in a small chamber filled with swirling
wisps of fog.

Glancing uneasily about him Hilton
noticed that the bulkheads were mottled

and eroded looking, the overhead
studded with cold light bulbs which
emitted a wan and sickly radiance.

“What interesting minds you have,”
said a not unfriendly voice which seemed
to come from deep inside Hilton’s skull.

Hilton jumped as though he had sat
inadvertently on a pin cooled by liquid
helium. A few feet from where he
was standing a shadowy shape was hov¬
ering. As Hilton stared a hazy outer
something, which may have been merely
a thickish patch of fog, seemed to fall
from it, exposing a scaly lizard shape
with tiny, dangling forelimbs and kanga-
roo-like lower extremities.

“Tyrannosaurus Rex,” was the thought
which wavered through Hilton’s mind,
to be instantly dispelled by the tele¬
pathic voice of the creature.

“Ugh, no. You’re the fifth Third
Planet biped has made that mistake. A
carnivorous dinosaur, wasn’t it? A mon¬
strous engine of destruction, thirty feet
in height? Brain the size of a walnut,
I believe. Fortunately we’re not at all
like that.”

The telepathic voice seemed to clear
its throat. “It’s curious, isn’t it, how
the same biological patterns recur again
and again—everywhere in space? On
thousands of habitable worlds? Even
your ships are inferiorly similar to ours,
if I may be pardoned a slight distortion
of speech.”

“Who are you?” asked Hilton.

“My name is Sib Niguth. But you
may call me Sib. You Third Planet bi¬
peds shorten the names of your—yes,
cronies. I’ve noticed you do, and I
think it a charming custom.”

There was utter silence in the lock
chamber as Janet crumpled to the deck.
Hilton uttered an exclamation and took
a backward step.

“Dear me,” telepathized Sib Niguth
sympathetically. “She’s fainted, hasn’t
she?”

Bong, bong, bong. Bong, bong, bong.

As though from an immeasurable dis¬
tance there came a ghastly tolling, chill¬
ing Hilton to the core of his being.
Appalled, shaken, he struggled to a sit¬
ting position, and stared about him. Al-

SPAWN OF THE FURTHER DARK

103

though his thoughts were confused he
was sharply aware that he had fallen
through blackness as though from an
immense height.

A split second after hearing the liz¬
ard say: “She’s fainted, hasn’t she?” he
had felt himself falling, his arms flail¬
ing the air, his long legs jerking. He
had seemed to skid a little before com¬
ing to an abrupt halt with his limbs
doubled up under him.

OW he was in another place. It
was smaller than the lock cham¬
ber, and twice as dismal. An odor as
of tainted shellfish assailed his nostrils,
and the bulkhead opposite was so close
to his face that his breath tarnished it.
A smudge like an interrogation point
formed on the corrugated metal, and
swelled to a whorl studded with gleam¬
ing pinpoints of moisture—an island
universe formed by his breath.

In sudden terror he stared upward.
The overhead was faintly luminous, but
it was not the wan illumination which
drove the blood in torrents from his
heart. It was something infinitely more
terrifying. Embedded in the metal di¬
rectly above his head were the outlines
of an enormous coffin.

For a moment he was so distraught
that his vision blurred. The object was
faintly rimmed with light, but a full
minute passed before he realized that it
was simply a grooved panel shaped like
a mummy case.

Slowly as he stared it slid open to
reveal another coffin-shaped panel
rimmed with radiance, another faintly
glowing overhead. A shudder of appre¬
hension gripped hold of him when he
realized that he was gazing up into an
even smaller chamber.

Deliberately, although his heart was
thumping wildly, he gripped both edges
of the panel aperture and heaved him¬
self up through it. The second cham¬
ber proved to be even smaller than he
had imagined. He could stand against
one bulkhead and touch the other by
simply extending his hands. There was
scarcely room for his elbows.

Sweat came out on his palms, ran

down his face. Gazing upward, he per¬
ceived with horror that the panel in the
overhead was opening on four bulk¬
heads set so close together they seemed
almost to touch. From the coffin-shaped
aperture a mistiness swirled down over
him.

He climbed into the third chamber by
gripping the rim of the opening with
both hands, and using his knees for
leverage. When he heaved, and struggled
erect he found himself in a chamber so
narrow that its dripping walls brought
a sensation of wetness to his flesh.

Immovable in darkness he stood with
his heart fluttering like a captive bird,
watching something that looked like a
gargantuan roach crawling back and
forth over the moist surface in front
of him. Looking up, he saw only a
dark surface, and looking down—

He sucked in his breath sharply. The
panel aperture had closed and he was
standing on the outlines of a coffin in
Stygian darkness. He was also stand¬
ing inside a coffin. The air was stifling,
and when he attempted to struggle cold
sweat drenched him. He was impris¬
oned—entrapped! Try as he might he
could not escape from the narrow con¬
fines of the vault, for the bulkheads
imprisoned his distorted limbs like a
vise.

Bong, bong, bong. Bong, bong, bong.

The ghastly tolling seemed to be com¬
ing from directly above his head now.
A dim, dreadful thought began to take
shape in his mind. Had the lizard
planned this? Was he caught in a kind
of hideous Chinese puzzle box from
which there could be no escape?

He had owned such a box as a child,
or rather a series of boxes. He recalled,
with horror, that the toy looked simple
enough. Three boxes set end to end,
neatly stacked. You opened the largest
and things began to happen. If you
were lucky you could open the middle
box, but you had to be in on the secret
to open the smallest box.

A cold chill gripped his every nerve.
In a frenzy of desperation he drove his
shoulders upward, again and again.

“Don’t give up,” he thought to him-

104

STARTLING STORIES

self. “Keep trying. Use your knees
and your elbows, never mind the pain.
Never mind cramped limbs, the agony
lancing through you. Heave with your
shoulders, struggle, put up a fight.”

The overhead gave all at once. One
minute he was bruising his shoulders
on a corrugated metal surface that
would not budge an inch. The next he
was lifting himself up into a blaze of
purple light.

Pulling himself up over a jagged sur¬
face he emerged into an enormous bright
chamber filled with scaly lizard shapes.
A sickening stench assailed his nostrils,
and his eyes were dazzled by blinding
shafts of light. Groaning, swaying from
his efforts he dragged himself forward
on his stomach over a deck that seemed
to flow out from under him.

He stopped crawling a yard from the
opening through which he had emerged,
and arose swayingly to his feet. A dozen
lizard shapes were standing in a circle
about him, hemming him in. The in¬
stant he arose their savage jaws swept
toward him, and clashed a foot from his
face.

W ITH a cry of terror he leapt
backward against something
soggy, wet. At once a soggy shape em¬
braced him with shrunken forelimbs,
and embedded its jaws in his leather
provision pack, ripping it from his back.

“We eat now—enjoy long sleep,” a
voice seemed to snarl in his brain.

“White, hairless Earth animal bitter
and stick in teeth,” came the telepathic
reply. “You want to go into punish¬
ment chute?”

“Other one—taste like laparou,” a
third snarling voice complained.

“Stop,” a fourth voice seemed to
scream through the ship. “Do not touch
him.”

Promptly the loathsome reptile
shapes fell back. Shuddering convul¬
sively, they moved to right and left, leav¬
ing a cleared space down the center of
the chamber which filled suddenly with
mist.

Out of the mist stepped Sib Niguth,
his withered forelegs quivering.

“Lamentable, lamentable,” he tele-
pathized. “A most unfortunate mishap.
When your wife fainted you stepped
backward into our discipline chute. You
see, we punish unruly members of the
crew by confining them in cramped
quarters. Disobedient crew member
steps into chute, and finds himself in
lower chamber. He struggles to escape.
In upper chamber his miseries increase.
Psychological torment, you understand?
A most effective means of preserving
discipline.”

Sib Niguth flicked moisture from his
jaw with the tip of his tongue. “For¬
tunately you climbed back out. Did you
hear the bell? It was a summons for
them to come and get it. Grog, you
understand? Chow. You are now in
the crew quarters. The lads are emo¬
tionally upset. We’ve been serving them
wormy concentrates. I must think of
my officers, you understand? They
wanted to—eh, eat you.”

“I’ve had enough of this puzzle,”
groaned Hilton. “Just who and what are
you? Where did you come from?
Pluto? I don’t recognize your species
at all.”

“Of course, you don’t, old chap,” was
Sib Niguth’s surprising answer. “We
are not of your Solar System—not even
of your galaxy. This is an inter-di¬
mensional spatial expedition. We are
from—let me put it so you will under¬
stand—our home universe is about five
hundred thousand of your light years
away. Just relax and let my thoughts
sink into your retentive memory cells.”

Hilton did so, and the gist of the in¬
formation he absorbed was so stagger¬
ing in concept that he felt as though
his brain had been dropped into a celes¬
tial vortex and spun in a spatial centri¬
fuge.

The lizard man cocked his head.

“What you need now is a sedative.
Yes, something to quiet your nerves. I
hope, by the way, that the crew did not
penetrate your flesh with their teeth.”

With a shudder Hilton perceived that
the lizard was squinting at him down
its tapering snout, its small eyes glisten¬
ing. (Turn to page 106)

T?"^f

To be read before the 4 th War Loan Drive

Lieutenant George H. Cannon, ils.m.c.,

was mortally wounded during the Jap bom¬
bardment of Midway, Dee. 7th. He refused
to be taken to a hospital till all his men had
been evacuated, and as a result, he died of
loss of blood.

Lieutenant Alexander Nininger, fought

his way into the Jap lines on Bataan. Wounded
8 times, he continued to advance until he was
killed. When his body was found, a Jap officer
and two Jap soldiers lay dead around him.

O NE dat soon you will be asked to
lend your Government at least an
extra $100. To put at least an extra $100,
over your regular Bond buying, into War
Bonds for the 4th War Loan.

Don’t say you can’t afford it even
though you may wonder how you’re going
to get that money.

If you think that getting the money is
going to be hard, why, before the door
bell rings, look at the faces of these dead
countrymen of yours. Read their stories.

Then think how hard it would be to
have to tell Americans like these that
other Americans can’t afford to lend at least
an extra $100!

Keep Backing the Attack!

The Treasury Department acknowledges
with appreciation the publication of
this advertisement by

THE PUBLISHERS OF THIS MAGAZINE

STARTLING STORIES

i of the War t
105

erlitini Council and the TJ ,S. Treasury Department

106

STARTLING STORIES

“I’ve arranged quarters for you,” it
telepathized. “Directly opposite the of¬
ficer’s cuddy. Your wife is resting
peaceably.”

Apprehension filled Hilton’s heart.

“Oh, how unfortunate,” the lizard tele¬
pathized, as though aware of his
thoughts. “ ‘Resting peaceably’ is an
expression which you only use when—
yes, yes, I understand. My dear fellow,
your wife is quite all right. I gave her
a sedative, and she is sleeping in a com¬
fortable berth. I’ve prepared—eh, twin
berths for you.”

“Thank heaven s,” Hilton almost
sobbed.

“Come,” the lizard prodded gently.
“I’ll take you to your quarters.”

Across the lurching mess room be¬
tween swaying reptile shapes Hilton
stumbled, a cold, guiding claw on his
arm. Out through a sliding door panel,
and into a corridor which filled him
with such a complexity of emotions that
he stood staring at Sib Niguth in
stunned incomprehension, as though he
had been caught doing something
wrong, and was about to be punished for
something he had not done at all.

The corridor wasn’t bare and corru¬
gated like the between-deck passage¬
ways of the Morning Star, for some¬
thing had decorated the bulkheads and
polished them till they glowed. The
decorations were spine-chilling in some
respects, but undeniably works of art.
Murals so eerily powerful in concep¬
tion that for an instant Sib Niguth
seemed to recede, and Hilton saw only
bas-relief lizard shapes performing un¬
believable tasks in a world alien to hu¬
manity.

E TCHED on the glowing metal were
the outlines of hexangular hills,
and rugged, crater-pitted plains. But
what gave Hilton the worst start were
the shapes in the foreground. One of
the bas-relief lizards was pushing a
geometrically insane wheelbarrow over
the plain, its scaly jaws agape. Another
was thumping the ground with its tail,
and shaking a tree which zigzagged up¬
ward from the rugose soil like a frozen

lightning bolt.

Still another was clinging at an im¬
possible angle to a denuded limb, its
forked tongue protruding, and a repul¬
sive voracity in its stare. A fourth was
squatting on its haunches directly be¬
neath the tree, slicing what appeared to
be a fat, hairy worm into sections with
its razor-sharp claws.

“That one is dissecting a crawl-vine,”
Sib Niguth whispered in Hilton’s brain.

“Dissecting what?”

“A crawl-vine. Our food supply, you
understand? Crawl-vines drop from the
trees and have to be harvested. But
first we dissect out the poisonous rinds.”

“I see,” Hilton groaned.

“These are simple pastoral murals,”
Sib Niguth explained. “In the officer’s
cuddy the bulkheads are covered with
more skillfully executed designs. It
may seem foolish to you, but we like to
surround ourselves with familiar scenes.
These were etched by one of the scullery
lads. Artistic abilities crop out in the
most unexpected places. But come, you
must be weary.”

Hilton nodded dazedly, and stumbled
along at the lizard’s side, his heart a
dull, pulsating ache in the depths of his
chest.

Another bulkhead panel swung open,
and Sib Niguth stepped aside so that
Hilton might enter a dimlit chamber
containing two metal berths, and some¬
thing that looked like a gigantic sauce¬
pan with two handles balancing itself
on a ten-foot saw.

“An automatic attendant,” Sib Niguth
explained. “Unfortunately it cannot
serve you, for your needs are quite dif¬
ferent from ours. I suggest you simply
let it stand there.”

Hilton felt his knees tremble beneath
him. One of the berths was unoccupied,
but on the other lay Janet, her cornsilk
hair pillowing her small, unmoving head.

“Do not be alarmed,” telepathized Sib
Niguth. “You will awake together, and
she will gravitate into your arms. You
Third Planet bipeds are so emotional.”

As he spoke the lizard reached into
his belly-pouch, and produced a small
crystal phial.

SPAWN OF THE FURTHER DARK

107

“Come now. You’d better drink this.”

Almost automatically Hilton found
himself accepting the sedative which
the lizard was forcing upon him. He
did not want to swallow the draught but
the lizard’s stare was as compelling as
a nightmare.

“Come now, take this. You’ll wake
up feeling fit as a fiddle.”

On and on the lizard’s telepathic voice
droned, mesmerizing Hilton more and
more as he relaxed at full length on the
metal berth opposite Janet. On and on,
with mounting candor and a kind of
wistful urgency, as though the lizard
really wanted to put Hilton at his ease.

“We’re going to be shipmates, so we
may as well let down our hair. I’m not
at all sure I’m the kind of commander
my officers deserve. But I do what I
can.”

On and on, until Hilton felt a deep
drowsiness creeping over him. Slowly
Sib Niguth’s features receded, and Hil¬
ton heard only the lizard’s voice deep in
his mind, talking about the ship and the
crew, and the mission which had been
carried out.

Sleep took possession of Hilton’s mind
in the middle of a sentence, so that the
voice faded out on a rising note.

A popular song drifted into Hilton’s
consciousness from the crew quarters,
jolting the mists from his brain. He
had no way of knowing how long he
had slept, under the influence of the
sedative which his scaly host had forced
upon him. The fact that the scaly crew
had dredged a “blues” melody from
the depths of his mind, and were sing¬
ing it now because it harmonized with
their mood, added a final nightmare
touch to his confusion.

n IS head trembled with the impact
of telepathic rhythms impinging
from a dozen despairing reptilian
brains. Reptiles the creatures unmis¬
takably were, and the fact that they had
been spawned on the dingy satellite of
a far-off sun could not lessen the re¬
vulsion which he felt when they drew
near to him.

From the berth opposite there came

an agitated stirring. Turning his head,
he perceived that Janet’s eyes were bor¬
ing holes in the darkness.

“It was your idea,” she flung at him.
“You got us into this.”

“Janet, I’m sorry.”

“When you disappeared I nearly went
off the deep end,” Janet choked. “That
hideous creature forced me to drink a
bitter, horrible drug. Oh, where are we?
Why did they pick us up?”

Hilton crooked his fingers, and
plucked at his scalp in the darkness.
“Janet, if I tell you, will you take it in
your stride like a real he-guy?” he
asked.

“I—I’ll try.”

“Well, they’re from another galaxy.
Functionally this ship resembles a small
Saturn-run jeep, but there’s something
you didn’t know. It’s also a dimension-
traveler. They’ve reached the Solar Sys¬
tem by traveling through buckling folds
of space-time, across billions of light
years.”

“Bill, they’re hostile, aren’t they?
They’ve come to injure mankind?”

He shook his head. “They bear us no
ill-will. They are on a mission of ex¬
ploration and discovery. The one who
has been so decent to us is a scientific
big shot. The crew are—well, the rep¬
tilian equivalent of able-bodied skymen.”

“All they do is sway and hiss,” Janet
groaned.

“That’s because they’re panic-stricken.
Something went wrong when they
emerged from subspace close to Pluto’s
orbit and made some navigational read¬
justments. In converting the ship from
a space-time into a straight space trav¬
eler they blew what they thought was
a foolproof gadget, the equivalent of a
tube. Now they can’t get back to their
universe.”

Hilton stared into the darkness, ap¬
palled by the mounting fear in his wife’s
eyes.

“Bill,” she whispered hoarsely. “You’re
keeping something from me.”

Hilton cleared his throat. “Janet, mo¬
tivation is a funny thing. If we were
going to die we wouldn’t care a hang
about improving our minds. But these

108

STARTLING STORIES

creatures are reptiles, cold and imper¬
sonal. Our logic is tinged with emo¬
tionalism.”

“What—what are you trying to say,
Bill?”

“The crew is in a blue funk, but the
leaders of this expedition want to know
more about our Sun. They’re heading
straight into it.”

Janet’s eyes widened. When she
spoke her voice was shrilly hysterical.

“But what good would scientific
knowledge be to them? They’ll never
see their world again, or be able to dis¬
cuss our world with other lizard scien¬
tists. It’s utterly illogical to want to
acquire knowledge which will perish
when the brain which contains it is a
roasted pulp.”

“Knowledge for its own sake, Janet,”
Hilton elaborated. “The satisfaction of
doing an appointed job well, of carry¬
ing on despite all obstacles. They intend
to die in a blaze of glory. They intend
to take observations until the ship is
too hot to hold them. They have a sort
of scientific martyr complex.”

Almost soundlessly a panel in the
bulkhead swung open, and a voice whis¬
pered in Hilton’s brain.

“I hope I am not intruding,” it said.
“I need your assistance. Your wife will
pardon us, I’m sure.”

Ignoring Janet’s protests Hilton rose
and accompanied Sib Niguth out of the
chamber.

“Your wife is upset?” queried the liz¬
ard sympathetically.

Hilton dug his nails into his palms.
“What do you think?”

The lizard spread its claws. “But my
dear chap, I picked you up because I
thought you might be of some assistance
to us. The others were not very help¬
ful.”

ILTON stared at him.

“I see. We’re just beetles in
amber to you!”

“My dear fellow, how droll! Beetles
are insects, I believe. Amber is a hard,
pale yellow fossil resin found upon cer¬
tain beaches. I picked that up from our
last passenger. He was an English en¬

gineer with a first-rate mind, but he
cracked up. Had to blast him out through
a stern rocket tube.”

“You mean you murdered him,” Hil¬
ton bridled.

“Oh, come now! Murder is an ugly
word in your language. Haven’t I as¬
sured you we bear you no ill will? It’s
just that you Third Planet bipeds are
so different from us that killing you
doesn’t go against the grain. You kill
ants without hating them. I understand
you admire ants, their social patterns,
their complete selflessness. And yet
you trample on them.”

“Sometimes, when they become pests,”
Hilton admitted.

The lizard shrugged. “We never do
anything that gives us an emotional
wrench. But when it doesn’t? After
all, my dear chap, why not? Wouldn’t
you?”

“No.”

“Then why do you trample on ants?”

“They’re not intelligent,” Hilton pro¬
tested. “Instinct and intelligence are
as far apart as the poles.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Instinct
is frozen intelligence. When intelligence
is fluid it gets one into no end of ridicu¬
lous scrapes. If that engineer chap
wasn’t romancing, ants have streamlined
their intelligence in a remarkable way.
No waste effort, no idleness. I regret
I shall never have the privilege of con¬
versing with an ant.”

“You wouldn’t get far,” Hilton
thought bitterly, entering the control
room by the lizard’s side. There was a
padded-cell feeling at the back of his
mind, and his nerves were close to the
breaking point.

The control room smelled like a cro¬
codile pool, but when the viewport
spiraled open Hilton felt a giddiness go
through him.

The spectacle before him was stupe¬
fying in its magnificence. Through the
smoky viewport the sun blazed with a
thousand unsuspected splendors. The
lines of light which sprouted from its
equator were rainbow hued, and the
chromosphere bubbled and seethed till
the entire void seemed to catch fire and

SPAWN OF THE FURTHER DARK

109

glow with an unearthly refulgence.

Against his scaly breast Sib Niguth
was bracing a gleaming metal tablet
which he had lifted from a circular
rack beside the control board. His
scrawny left arm was crooked about it,
and as he telepathized he moved a glow¬
ing stylograph slowly back and forth
with his right claw.

“It’s your sun,” the lizard said. “You
know more about it than we do. Do the
naked-eye phenomena before you square
with the observations of your astrono¬
mers?”

“I—I’m not sure,” Hilton stammered.
“Of course I’m no astronomer, but those
sunspots don’t look right. They’re al¬
most as bright as the surrounding lumi¬
nosity. They should be quite dark, you
know. And the chromosphere should
absorb colors more. We get Fraunhofer
lines because it is supposed to absorb
colors.”

“Oh?”

“The—the corona shouldn’t be visible
now because of the stupendous bright-

Sib Niguth seemed taken aback. “You
have remarkable powers of observation,
I must say. I can perceive no corona.”

“Those banners of light are it,” Hil¬
ton explained. “When you have only
a few sunspots you don’t get a circular
corona.”

“H-h-m-mm! Well, suppose you look
back at the Earth now. You’ve never
observed the Third Planet from this
side, have you?”

His temples thudding, Hilton crossed
the control room to the stern magnifica-
tionscope and stared through the eye¬
piece.

The planet which appeared amidst a
wavering backdrop of stars and misty
nebulae was splotched and soggy look¬
ing, and bore a disgusting resemblance
to an overripe toadstool.

“Well?” the lizard prodded.

“Those dark patches could be seas,”
Hilton choked. “But where are the con¬
tinents?”

“Where are what?”

“What has become of Europe, Asia,
Africa and the Americas?”

HE lizard seemed puzzled.

“You wouldn’t see them all at
once,” he said at last.

“No-o-o. No, of course not. But it’s
most peculiar all the same. I can make
out several large craters, but no familiar
land masses. That corkscrew mottling
could be—yes, it’s just possible—no,
hold on—on second thought, no.”

“No, what?”

“Australia wouldn’t look like that.”

The lizard shrugged and returned the
writing tablet to its rack.

“I’m afraid we’re getting nowhere,”
he telepathized resentfully. “Why
should you be puzzled by the appear¬
ance of your own sun, your own planet?
Rudimentary sciences you must have.”

“But I am puzzled,” Hilton stam¬
mered. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s most regrettable. I thought I
could draw upon your knowledge to ad¬
vantage. I risked—well, too much. I
allowed myself to forget that you and
your wife weigh nearly as much as I
do.”

Hilton turned pale. “What has our
weight to do with you?”

“My dear fellow, we don’t want to go
into a circular orbit about your sun. We
want to drive straight into it. We may
have to—well, dispose of a little ballast.”
As the lizard spoke he raised his claw
and sent a jet of green spray spurting
toward Hilton. The man's head was en¬
veloped by it and his brain whirled.

Hilton had only the vaguest recollec¬
tion of being helped back across the
mural-decorated passageway to his
berth. As though in a glass darkly he
saw Janet’s white face, and felt his legs
being elevated, and Sib Niguth’s breath
hot and acrid on his brow.

When his faculties steadied he was
lying stretched out at full length, and
Janet was bending over him.

“Darling, are you all right?” she
choked.

Groaning, he sat up. His brow was
wet with perspiration and he again
trembled with dread as to their fate.

“Darling, what happened to you?
That hideous creature had to help you
to your bunk.”

110

STARTLING STORIES

“I almost passed out.”

“But why, Bill?”

In utter silence he drew her into his
arms. Lingeringly he kissed her.

“We did have a honeymoon,” he whis¬
pered. “Nothing can take Callisto Falls
away from us.”

“No, Bill.”

“It was my fault, darling. Suggesting
we hitch-hike. You ought to hate me.”

“I don’t at all.”

“You’re a generous, loyal, brave little
wife. Janet, I’ll ask him to blast us out
through one tube into the void. We’ll
be like those two lovers in Dante’s In¬
ferno, drifting around forever together,
while the stars look down.”

The bulkhead panel slid slowly open,
and into the chamber stepped Sib Ni-
guth, his withered forelimbs quivering.

“I owe you an apology,” he telepa-
thized. “We’ve just made a startling
discovery. We—”

Something seemed to snap in Hilton’s
brain. Before the lizard could finish he
was on his feet, his eyes blazing.

“You win, funny face. But before you
blast us through a rocket tube I’ve a
little present for you.”

“No wait, we—s-s-il-ush!”

Like a piston Hilton’s fist drove for¬
ward into the lizard’s stomach, sending
him staggering backward.

“Something to remember us by,” Hil¬
ton snarled.

“No, wait!” Sib Niguth telepathized,
and—disappeared.

“Here I am,” the lizard said, reap¬
pearing on the opposite side of the cham¬
ber. “A nasty temper you have, I must
say.”

Hilton wheeled in amazement.

“Bill, look out!” Janet screamed. “He
can make himself invisible.”

“Dematerialization,” the lizard ex¬
plained, “is a simple mechanical process.
Our race mastered it when your ances¬
tors were living in caves.”

As he spoke Sib Niguth sprang into
the air, and launched himself straight
at the terrified Earthling, his kangaroo¬
like extremities drawn back in a most
hideous fashion.

Hilton never knew what struck him.

One minute he saw the creature’s webbed
feet descending toward him, the next
his skull seemed to burst asunder, and
he sank down into blackness, felled by a
terrific kick between the eyes and end¬
ing in a sideward blow to the stomach.

S OMEONE was tugging at his sleeve.

“Bill, oh Bill. We’re in our own
little ship again. Wake up, dearest.”

Groaning, he struggled to a sitting
position. Thank goodness he was not
reclining in darkness any more. He
was sitting before the control panel of
the Morning Star, and Janet was perched
opposite him.

She was leaning toward him, eyes
shining. “Darling, he left this message
for you.”

“Huh?”

“He left a message. Bill. It’s etched
out in English on metal. You’d better
read it, darling.”

Somewhat dazed Hilton took the metal
tablet from his wife’s hand. It read:

My dear fellow: The joke’s on us. It
wasn’t your sun. It was our sun. And the
“Earth” was one of our planets—Salashun.
The dazzle was so intense I failed to recog¬
nize my own sun. Ironic, what? That tube I
told you about wasn’t burned out. It was just
acting up. When I converted the ship into a
space traveler I forgot to unscrew it, you see?

Old chap, it started sputtering, then lighted
up. We see-sawed back and forth between
your system and ours, across billions of light
years. And every time we returned to your
system your ship was right beside us in the
void. Most of the time we were in our sys¬
tem, you understand? We didn’t travel spa¬
tially in yours after you hailed us.

Old fellow, one doesn’t always trample on
ants. Sometimes one picks them up and puts
them back into their mounds. Yes, I think
you would call it an irrational impulse.
You’ve had bacon and eggs for breakfast, and
are smoking a pipe. You feel—well, mellow.
Live and let live, eh?

I felt mellow myself, old chap. Knowing I
could jolly well stop the see-sawing—know¬
ing I could make readjustments which would
keep us on our side of the cosmic fence.

Incidentally, one of the engine room lads is
a technical wizard. He repaired your ship
before he rolled up his sleeves, as you would
say, and went to work on the tube. He as¬
sures me you won't be troubled by leaking
fumes or defective j-valves.

You see, the lads feel mellow, too. They’re
grateful to you for the “Blues”—singing it
kept them from coming a cropper. Old chap,
we’ve put you back, and now we’re going
home. Good luck, and—free wheeling.

Sib Niguth.

THE BARD
OF CERES

By JOSEPH FARRELL

Johnny Bates, Space Guard on
Ceres, Was Bored with His Job,
But a Space Pirate and Shake¬
speare Soon Livened Things Up!

H ENRY TREVOR was chuck¬
ling softly. He looked up from
the close-printed pages of “The
Merry Wives of Windsor” at his rest¬
lessly pacing young assistant, Johnny
Bates.

“You should learn to appreciate Shake¬
speare, Johnny,” he advised. “He’s the
greatest humorist of them all. Listen to
the way Falstaff—”

Johnny Bates swung around and
glared at him.

“Shakespeare! I’m sick of him. And
I’m tired of this infernal planetoid, and I
hate those slimy natives—”

His lean jaw thrust out beneath the
bored youthful features. “Join the Space
Guard!” he quoted mockingly. “Adven¬
ture, travel, romance—the thrill of far-
off planets. And here I am, assigned to
guarding a third rate asteroid.” He
broke off, ran a hand through long black
hair. “I’m sorry, Henry. No need to
take it out on you. But I’m bored.”

He turned and stared out the window
of the government post. The familiar
barren landscape disappeared abruptly
at the short horizon. It was hard, jagged
rock, the only level ground being the
thousand-yard-long landing strip at his
right.

Above him space was black and bright-
starred. He stared wistfully. Out there
the Space Guard were doing men’s work.
Roth Haggar, terror of the spaceways,
was being hunted. And here was he,
Johnny Bates, tied down to this govern¬
ment post and landing strip on tiny
Ceres.

The natives came to life.^and started swelling their

Trevor had come up behind him. The
older man’s eyes were concerned as he
put a hand on the boy’s shoulders.

“You’ll get your chance, Johnny.
You’re young and romantic, but you’ll
have to wait for an opening.” He ges¬
tured toward the volumes in the book¬
case. “You could spend many pleasant
hours until you’re called for more active
service.”

They both knew it was untrue. A man
stationed at such an outpost could be for¬
gotten, spend his life there. Johnny
nodded, trying not to look too glum. He
wished he were like Trevor. The older
man had asked for this post, and had
spent twenty years studying the works
of Shakespeare. But Johnny knew he
could never be that type.

112

STARTLING STORIES

H E LOOKED on in mild interest as
a weird figure wriggled over the
near horizon, coming toward the post.
Another followed, and then more. Six
of the creatures appeared.

“See, we have company,” said Trevor
pleasantly.

Johnny managed a smile, watching the
gruesome shapes of sickly gray cowhide
writhing toward them. The natives were
friendly, even sociable, and best of all,
they had vocal chords. They even knew
a little pidgin-English.

Trevor snapped the lever that con¬
trolled the airlock. When the half dozen
Cereans were packed between the doors
he pushed it to the position that closed
the outer and opened the inner door. The
amorphous creatures waddled into the
room.

Trevor grunted a welcome and broke
out the sugar supply. He passed out
lumps, which disappeared swiftly into
the digestive systems of the natives.

Hroxl, the leader of the Cereans,
grunted back. Like the others, he was
dressed in his Sunday best, which in¬
volved a strip of rope about his middle
and a short ceremonial spear that he
held proudly.

“Ceres fellas come see Earth fellas,”
he announced. “Bye-’n-bye much Earth
fellas this place.”

The two men looked at each other.
Guessing what the natives meant was
often a game.

“He thinks you’re my wife,” hazarded
Trevor. “He’s been listening to the
Earth radio and heard about the septup-
lets that were born back on Earth.”

Johnny suppressed a grin. “If there
were seven of you,” he growled, “there’d
be seven corpses here. But as usual
you’re wrong. He’s seen a space-ship
coming, for two platins.”

“It’s a bet.” Trevor dug into his
pocket. “Ante up!”

“What the devil!” Johnny demanded.
He stared at the natives. They were
trying hard to stand on their heads, and
not succeeding very well, because most
of their weight was in their lower parts.
A slow grin of understanding broke on
Johnny’s face.

“No, no,” he explained. “Henry didn’t
say ’ends up.’ He said ‘ante up!’ ”

The Cereans returned to their normal
postures. “Cerean fellas make mistake,”
said Hroxl, seriously.

“I wonder,” said Johnny. His voice
was doubtful. “Sometimes I think you
white lobsters have a sense of humor. But
a pun is the lowest form, especially the
way you do it.”

Trevor stopped chuckling and ad¬
dressed the natives. “Ceres fella make
talk much Earth fellas by this place
very fast. My word! What Earth fella
this?”

The chief waved toward the sharp
horizon. “Earth fellas that place. Make
this place. My word, yes!”

Johnny looked narrowly. “Maybe you
owe me two platins, Henry. If some¬
body’s coming—”

A human figure surrounded by a bulg¬
ing space-suit broke into view. The man
seemed injured, then they saw him fall
to one knee. He picked himself up and
staggered toward the shack.

“A wounded man!” Trevor exclaimed.
“Possibly a space-ship crashed on
Ceres! Johnny, get the first-aid equip¬
ment out—I’ll go for him.”

Johnny quickly reached for the med¬
ical supplies while Trevor put himself
into a space-suit. He opened the lock,
and let Henry out. In their corner the
natives watched with incurious eyes.

OHNNY watched Trevor reach the
injured man and lift him by the belt
of his bulger—no effort in the feeble
gravity of Ceres. In a few minutes, the
two men were back through the airlock,
inside the shack. The man had his hands
over his vision plate, as if shielding his
eyes.

Trevor started stripping off his space-
suit. “We’ll get the things off him, and

He stopped short. The man had
worked off his helmet and stood facing
them with a deadly UV gun in his hand.
They stared at the thin-lipped, evil face,
with its scar that ran from one corner
of his mouth to the ear, giving the look
of a diabolical grin.

THE BARD OF CERES

113

“Roth Haggar!” they exclaimed to¬
gether.

The outlaw’s cold eyes studied them
mockingly.

“In person.” The voice was an omin¬
ous purr that fitted the graceful, catlike
motions of the lean outlaw. “Roth Hag-
gar is a leader in the full sense of the
word. When I want something done
properly, I do it myself.”

“I’ll never eat ham again,” said Tre¬
vor. “What do you want here?”

Haggar’s grin disappeared. “When
I’m through with you— But first of all,
I have a man coming. He’s been listen¬
ing in on helmet radio.”

He waved his gun. “Go stand in that
corner for now. I may need you later.”

The outlaw stepped to the lever that
controlled the airlock. Johnny glanced
outside and saw a space-suited figure ap¬
proaching. When the man entered, he
studied him, and recognized him from
the reward posters.

It was a squat, barrel-chested gorilla,
one of Roth Haggar’s worst cutthroats.
The man had a bald head, and a patch
over one eye gave him the name of
Ganymede Joe, since he had lost his eye
on that moon. The hairy suitcase he
used for a jaw dropped when he came
through the airlock and found himself
face to face with the Cereans. He stared
at them, his gun leveled.

“Boss! What’s those things?” He tore
off his helmet for a better look. “Are
they alive?”

Haggar glanced disdainfully at the
natives. “They don’t count. I checked
them in the Interplanet Encyc—I be¬
lieve in being thorough. One human is
the same as another to them, so just act
as if they aren’t there. They won’t bother
us.”

“They give me the shivers,” Ganymede
Joe complained. He moved closer to
Haggar’s side. “They’re obnoxious and
pestficerous, that’s what they are!”

“Forget them,” Haggar ordered. “Get
to that radio and start signaling the
boys. Tell them it’s all right to land.”

“They ain’t human,” Ganymede Joe
insisted. He moved cautiously toward
the radio, keeping his good eye on the

Cereans. “They’re Frankensteenish!
They’re—uh—” he fumbled for a good
word. “Gruesome!”

The natives came to life. They started
swelling their bodies, pumping what air
they could into their almost vestigial
lungs, and their tentacles spread out.
Ganymede Joe yipped, almost dropped
his gun. Haggar looked suspiciously at
Bates and Trevor.

“What’s this?” he demanded.

Johnny shrugged unhappily. “They’re
punsters,” he explained. “Your ape said
‘gruesome,’ and it sounded like ‘Grow
some.’ They’re just being obliging.”

“Well, stop it!” Haggar ordered. “Get
back to your right sizes, you animated
gargoyles, or I’ll give you a dose of UV
that’ll make you stop growing—per¬
manent !”

The Cereans deflated. “Ceres fellas
make wrong idea,” said Hroxl, looking
as sheepish as it is possible for a native
of Ceres to look.

“Let’s get rid of them, chief,” Gany¬
mede Joe begged.

"No. Let them stay, and see how Roth
Haggar works. I remember reading
about these puns. Nobody knows whether
it’s really naivete, or whether they’re
being kittenish. But they won’t hurt us.”

“I still insist they’re superfluous,
chief.”

Haggar scowled at his henchman
“Get at that radio, and contact the
others!”

T HE gorilla grumbled and started
playing with the transmitter. Bates
and Trevor stared unhappily at each
other. Henry leaned against the book¬
case. In an automatic gesture, he
picked up one of his volumes of Shakes¬
peare.

Roth Haggar strutted thoughtfully.

“A nice layout. I’ve always liked the
idea of taking over one of these govern¬
ment posts. From here we can raid
ships outbound from Mars and Earth.
You’ve got detectors here to warn us of
any approaching danger. You’ve got a
Choney field to guard the only strip of
land on the whole asteroid where a
space-ship could, be set down. Yes—an

114

STARTLING STORIES

excellent layout.”

Bates knew the outlaw was right.
They had been tricked. No space-ship
could have landed on Ceres against their
wishes, for the Choney field was a bar¬
rier of force that would wreck any vessel
that attempted to land without their
permission. But now the field would be
released to let the pirate vessel land.

“Erricson!” Ganymede Joe had con¬
tacted the waiting space-ship. “You can
come in now. We got everything under
control here—The boss sure put it over
big.” Neanderthal features in the tele¬
plate spat to one side. “How about the
Choney? Make dam sure you cut out
the Choney. That field would cut us
into pieces so small we’d have to dodge
atoms.”

Ganymede Joe nodded. He reached
out and spun to its farthest notch the
heavy wheel that controlled the Choney
field.

“The field is now disestablished,” he
announced. “Come on in.”

“Coming,” said Erricson.

The screen blacked out. Through the
window, Johnny saw the distant lights
of the approaching ship. In a minute
he could make out details, and his jaw
hardened a little.

“Like it?” Roth Haggar asked, with a
touch of pride. “The toughest ship in
the system. Tops for offense or defense.
Nothing the Space Guard has can stand
up to it. Notice those gun turrets in
the waist. My own personal invention.”

Johnny looked it over, his thoughts as
dark as the deadly prow that was nosing
toward the landing strip. Black and
grim that vessel was, its cargo death and
its crew the scrapings of the planets.

His eyes met Trevor’s. The older
man’s gaze was troubled too, as he un¬
consciously fingered the volume in his
hands.

“What’s that book you have there?”
Roth Haggar demanded suddenly.

Trevor looked in surprise at the out¬
law, then at the book. “I didn’t even
know I was holding it,” he said. “It’s a
habit.”

“What is it!” Hangar snapped.

Johnny’s eyes lighted momentarr'ly.
“Two platins this’ll work,” he murmured.

“Stop whispering!” Haggar roared.
“What’s that book?”

“Shakespeare!” Johnny roared back.

Haggar flinched suddenly as the na¬
tives started waving their short spears.
Ganymede Joe howled in instinctive ter¬
ror. From the weapons of both outlaws
murderous blasts of highly concentrated
ultra-violet rays pounded the natives.

The natives screamed in sudden agony.
But they did not die. Haggar stared
unbelievingly over the warm UV gun.

“It’s impossible!” he shouted. “These
are the deadliest weapons made—my own
invention.”

He backed away a step, eyes widening.

The Cereans were moving in on him.
“Ceres fellas mad! Darn, my word,
much mad. Kill! Kill!”

Roth Haggar’s voice went shrill. He
threw an arm over his face as a shower
of spears crashed into him. Ganymede
Joe clubbed his gun and struck out at
the natives who swarmed at him. Then
he was down.

“No kill!” Johnny’s voice bellowed,
over the uproar. “Earth fellas dead no
good. Earth fellas live make much
sugar Cerean fellas! My word!”

Trevor’s gun covered the battered
criminals as the Cereans retreated
gravely to their corner.

“That sugar,” said Johnny, grinning
widely, “will be the green, folding
kind!”

H E SWUNG the heavy wheel of the
Choney field just as the outlaw ves¬
sel touched the landing strip. The ship
started slowing to a stop. Then—in a
fraction of a second it sprinkled silently
to the ground in a nauseating mess.

If the ship had been made of wood,
the pieces could have been used for
matchsticks.

Johnny eyed the remains thought¬
fully. “Better call the front office,
Henry,” he suggested. “Tell them to
bring a ton of sugar for the boys, and
a ton of chains for these two apes.”

“I can’t understand it,” Roth Haggar
was groaning. “Our UV guns are the
deadliest weapons in existence. But all
('Concluded on page 129)

Oki

STARTLING WAR

News and Notes from the
Science Front

CANADIAN NAVY LICKS MAL DE MSR—If the

war has done nothing else for humanity,
it promises, thanks to the work of Surgeon
Captain C. H. Best, Royal Canadian Naval
Volunteer Reserve, co-discoverer of insulin,
and Dr. Wiler Penfield of Montreal, to van¬
quish the dreaded mal de mer —seasickness to
you—forever.

Already, three out of four cases are cured
by the use of pink pills of undisclosed in¬
gredients which have a gyroscopic steadying
effect on stomachs afflicted by the roll and
pitch of a ship’s deck. The capsules are now
being manufactured in quantity and will be
available for civilian use after the war.

C UPER BOMBER ALMOST READY FOR COMBAT

J —The immense Martin B-29, the Army’s
new super bomber, which will reduce the
Fortress and Liberator to the status of
medium planes, is now in quantity produc¬
tion and almost ready to release its vast load
of "eggs” on the Axis. Specific details as to
its speed and bomb load are still unreleased,
but enough has seeped out to give a fair pic¬
ture of the monster.

It is a six-motor job, its Wright Cyclone
18 engines giving it a total of 12,000 horse
power with speed approximating that of pres¬
ent day fighters. It is armed with weapons
ranging up to 75 mm cannon, will carry a
greater bomb load than any existing plane
and will be able to bomb Tokyo and return
from present American Pacific bases. Some¬
body had better run for cover when this baby
gets into operation.

U S. ARMY DOCTORS PERFORM MEDICAL
■ MIRACLE—Fifty-one per cent of United
States war wounded have been returned to
active duty after hospitalization! This
startling figure does not include wounded
treated at first-aid stations near the fronts
who rejoin their units in a few days. Ac¬
cording to the Hospital Administrative Sec¬
tion of the Medical Department, only ten per
cent of total casualties are hospitalized at
all. Of almost 20,000 hospitalized casualties
in all theatres up to last August IS, more than
9,000 are already back in active service with
more of the same total on the way back to the

ARMY COPORALS TURN STUMPS INTO MA-
" CHINE-GUN MOUNT S—Two Army non-
coms, Corporals D. L. Hover and V. Ciacca-
rini, have come up with a gadget that con¬
verts any fencepost or tree stump into an
anti-aircraft mount for the .50-calibre ma¬
chine-gun, the weapon most feared by straf¬
ing planes. It can be secured in less than

thirty seconds and is based on a one-foot
piece of four-inch angle iron with two short
pieces of chain attached near either end so
that they can be snugged up tight by turning
a pair of wing nuts. These clamp the mount
to the post. Flanges and a pair of circular
plates complete the gadget, which is only 18
inches long and weighs less than 25 pounds.

klOVEL BOMB AS ’'TERROR" WEAPON—A new

high in grisly war weapons is offered by
inventor S. L. Conrad of Columbus, Ohio, in
the form of a bomb built in spherical shape
with projecting spikes to give it a better
grip on the ground. Within it is a gasoline
engine. The idea is to drop it by parachute
and let it run wild among enemy troops under
its own power, rolling erratically and explod¬
ing God knows where. It sounds swell as
long as it doesn’t roll back among our own

DOCKET JETS "PUSH" BOMB DOWNWARD—To

n give a bomb greater downward velocity
than it receives from gravity, W. F. Rouse
of Havelock, Iowa, proposes a series of rocket
jets in its tail to be ignited after the missile
has fallen well clear of the lanching aircraft.
"Upside down” rocket bombs of this type
were reported in use by the Germans some
time ago, but this is the first emergence of
such a weapon as an American invention.

QARAND GETS GUNSIGHT PATENT—John C.
^ Garand, Springfield Arsenal employee and
inventor of the M-l rifle now in use by our
armed forces, has patented a new type of rear
peepsight for firearms. It consists of an L-
shaped member mounted on the barrel by
means of a transverse hinge. Each arm of the
L is pierced by a peepsight aperture near its
upper end. The two arms are of unequal
length, so that two quickly adjusted eleva¬
tions are possible on the weapon. Royalty-
free rights for manufacture and use are as¬
signed to the U. S. Government.

MEW INVENTION MAKES WHISTLE PUFFS
1 ” VISIBLE — Famed inventor John Hays Ham¬
mond Jr. has come up with a powder puff for
whistles on diesel-propelled vessels which
will make their blasts visible to mariners.

Ships’ captains, accustomed to reading sig¬
nals by the puff of steam on steam whistles
rather than by their sound, particularly in
congested waterway, have been having trouble
understanding puffless diesel whistles. Mr.
Hammond adds a tight powder-packed cylin¬
der to the whistles along with a supplemen¬
tary blast of air which does the trick, thus
aiding convoy maneuvers considerably.

THE ETHER VIBRATES

(Continued, from page 9)

A rguments about who won the

last war and who is doing most
*■ to win this, are usually very
much to be deprecated. But a friendly
competition as to which people is man¬
aging to make the best monetary con¬
tribution might have its uses as a stim¬
ulant to the War Bond and Stamp Cam¬
paign.

Britain has pushed her income tax in
the higher brackets up to as much as
97^4% and has introduced a system of
deferred payment of salaries and wages.
Payment of both in certain cases is
withheld and will be made available as
savings at the end of the war.

The American campaign for bonds
and stamps is an attempt to do in a
voluntary way what has been done partly
by law in Britain. It would be a fine
testimony to the capacity of the Amer¬
ican people for that voluntary coopera¬
tion which is of the essence of democ¬

racy if this campaign succeeded so well
that no compulsory savings were nec¬
essary.

Furthermore, we are all discussing
these days the post-war settlement; but
one of the chief features of the post¬
war settlement should be provision
against a post-war depression.

The War Bond Campaign is not
merely a war measure; it is a measure of
post-war settlement, a means of holding
back purchasing power until that mo¬
ment of time when it will be most
needed, the time of post-war reconstruc¬
tion spending then of the money saved
—and increased—by bonds, will be a
first class means of giving a stimulant
to business and preventing depression
to Bond buyers, or a means both of
beating the enemy and of seeing that his
onslaught does as little damage as pos¬
sible to our societies in the difficult and
dangerous post-war period.

PREPARE TD MEET POST-WAR PROHLEMS!

117

THE ETHER VIBRATES

(Continued from page 116)

“YOU ARE UNDER
ARREST”

rHHsT sh ' p STA?TL ™°
EnSSi1

If you don’t, I’ll kn

rter, and write in w

_ overpowering that

But don’t forget to com-
All kiwis

GOING TO THE DOGS

By Gerry de la Ree, Jr.

_t of day back in those far, far better day

1929, I have purchased and usually read each issue
as it appeared. And, year by year, issue by issue,
I have watched that magazine slowly fall from the
top of the list until it is bouncing near the bottom.

Faults? The present issues have plenty. First, the
stories themselves. You haven’t published a decent

[Turn page]

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No. 20: MURDER IN SHINBONE ALLEY,
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fourteen stories of empty space.

No. 19: THE CROOKED HINGE, by John
Dickson Carr. Murder, witchcraft, magic and
the hideous Golden Hag form the basis of a
breathless novel featuring Dr. Gideon Fell.

No. 18: TRAGEDY IN THE HOLLOW, by
Freeman Wills Crofts. Violent death on a float¬
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No. 17: THE HOUSE ON THE ROOF, by
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No. 16: THE DEAD DON’T CARE, by Jona¬
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No. 15: THE THIRD EYE, by Ethel Lina
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THRILLS IN SCIENCE THRILL

SiSSIMi

. ill

The trouble with this junior astrogator is
t he is too well satisfied. No kick in his
ergrams, and therefore no kick to it—ac¬
ceding to the most of you little ogres.

Okay, Snaggle-tooth, you may jetison all
:his stuff through the garbage chute and then
stuff the old Sarge’s pillow with fresh aspirin.
Ml the rest of you kiwis get busy gnawing
:his issue to pieces. ^ And, Pee-lot Genne, you

Tshot^f S Xeno n wifh’me. 6 qUartefS 3nd haV ®
Happy spacings, all you little monsters!

—SERGEANT SATURN.

REVIEW OF THE
SCIENCE FICTION
FAN PUBLICATIONS

SERGEANT SATURN

N OW if you space birds think the old
Sarge is going to sit down in his
padded chair and read every word in
this pile of fanziness and then give you a
thousand-word review on each publication,
you’re nuts! But there are some very in¬

triguing numbers here on the desk, so let’s
start shuffling through them, hunting for the
pretty pin-up pictures. Hope I find a couple
suitable for framing.

Snaggle-tooth has carefully arranged them
in alphabetical order. By the way, Snaggle-
tooth is a maniac on system. He went
with the old Sarge to a restaurant one day
last week and ordered alphabet soup. Right
away he started eating the little noodlets in
proper sequence, beginning with all the A
letters before touching a B or a C.

By the time the old space dog got down to
pie and coffee Snaggle-tooth was just starting
on the F series in his soup. He must have
found four F’s, because the draft board re¬
jected him this week.

But to get along. We’ll start the present
hearing with A.

THE ACOLYTE, 720 Tenth Street, Clarks-
ton, Washington. Editor, Francis T. Laney.
Quarterly. 35c for four issues.

Holy sun imps!—to crib a Futuremen phrase.
Thirty-four pages of single-spaced black type (set
solid) on standard white paper, relieved by only
three full-page illustrations. Hooks formidable.
You fans had better read the text for yourselves.
The old Sarge can't even understand the pictures.
But neat! The issue is neat and sharp and clean.
Nicely arranged contents page. I'll comment on the
cover. A very good drawing by Howard Wandrei.
Subject : nightmare in a Venusian forest with All
Baba’s grandmother playing tag with an overstuffed
seahorse. A fanzine with a lot of hard work in it.

APOLLO, 411 S. Fess Street, Bloomington,
Indiana. Editor, Joe Hensley. 5c per issue.

Eight white pag.
Blue and pink typ<
cover. Subject: I
dodging a space si
Subject matter

ads. Good luck v

COSMIC CIRCLE COMMENTATOR, 214
N. 20th, Newcastle, Indiana. Editor, Don
Rogers. Published semi-monthly. 5c per

:k type. Too tough for the Sarg’e't _ _

.0 be full of interesting dope on fan organiza-

\Tuin page ]

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and Walter J. Daugherty.

fearful. Spend more time on the subject mat¬
ter and the actual labor itself if you’re going
to clutter up your magazines with pictures.

Sure, the old Sarge loves pictures—and
they don’t all have to be of undraped femmes, I
either. But they’ve got to be better and half- j
way comprehensible. Too many of the fan¬
zines we review look as though they had been
illustrated by the kindergarten klass. Snap
it up, gents.

Otherwise, the old Sarge is proud of you
fanziners. Carry on. And send me a batch ;
of publications that I can view with delight j
next issue through my Xeno-colored glasses.

IMPORTANT NOTICE

Wartime paper rationing makes it impossible to
print enough copies of this magazine to meet the
demand. To be sure of getting YOUR copy, place a
standing order with your regular newsdealer.

THE BARD OF CERES

(Concluded from page 114)
they did to those blasted natives was
make them mad!”

Trevor reverently put down the copy
of Macbeth and started signaling Guard
headquarters.

“You should have used old-fashioned
bullets,” he explained. “These crea¬
tures live on a planet without an
atmosphere. They’re used to ultra¬
violet rays in heavy doses.”

A chuckle escaped his throat. He
motioned toward the natives.

All eyes turned to the flabby beings.
They were squirming uncomfortably. A
pink glow covered their fish-belly skins.
The criminals began to understand.

“By Ceres, boss!” Ganymede Joe said i
in amazement. “I told you they wasn’t {
human! Our ray guns only give ’em a 1
sunburn!”

129

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‘Meet the new fireman, Mrs. Irvin f

• How would you like to carry home the
hews that you’ve been advanced to fore¬
man? You’ve thought about it, of course.
But what have you done about it?

Training is the dividing line between,
the man at the machine and his foreman.
It outweighs long service. Promotions to
supervisory rank go to the men who have
equipped themselves for the step up.

Have you studied the managing of men
at work? Do you have a trained man’s
: of Wage Systems and Job
m, Production Planning, Control
of Materials, Control of the Quality of
ared Goods?

mous Foremanship Course of
the International Correspondence Schools
gives you these — and much more. Don’t
let the other fellow "step over your head.”
Mailing the I. C. S. coupon has meant suc-
'tousands of ambitious Americans.
v to join them!

Seven things you can do to stop Inflation

security do these seven things: 1. Buy only what you need
and make things last. 2. Pay no more than ceiling prices.

3. Pay increased taxes willingly. 4. Pay off old debts and
avoid new ones. 5. Live within present income. 6. Build up
savings and life insurance for the future. 7. Buy and
hold more War Bonds.

Clear heads choose Calvert

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